nia 


Ex  Libris 
[   C.  K.  OGDEN 


HOPE. 

I  HUM    A    1'AINTING    BY    GABRIKI,    MAX. 
t  the  Berlin  Photographic  Co..  Berlin  and  V 


:  1  N  MY 

V/ 
V/ 
V/ 

:poms 

LADY'S 

y 

OF  LOVE 
AND  :  : 

V/ 

NAME: 

XX 
XX 

BEAUTY 

rv\mr»ilf>fl  ftnr\   TSrrar\nf*f\   h*/    •    • 

CHARLES  WELLS  NOULTON 


G.  P.  PUTNRiTS  SONS' 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON  *  *  * 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Ube  "Knickerbocker  press,  t*ew  J2ork 


ONE  LOVELY  NAME. 

One  lovely  name  adorns  my  song, 
And,  dwelling  in  my  heart, 

For  ever  falters  at  the  tongue, 
And  trembles  to  depart. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

ONE  LOVELY  NAME 

Lander,  Walter  Savage 

iii 

THY  NAME 

Barbe,  Waitman 

XV 

ADA     .... 

Biddle,  Horace  P.     ... 

3 

ADELINE     . 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  . 

5 

ADELLE 

Cameron,  George  Frederick  . 

8 

ADRIANA    . 

Taylor,  Sir  Henry    . 

9 

AGATHA 

Burleigh,  William  H.     . 

9 

AGNES 

Tatlow,  Joseph         . 

12 

AGNES        »       .       . 

Donahoe,  Daniel  J. 

12 

ALCINEA    . 

Ariosto        

13 

ALICE  .... 

Wright,  Blanche  Bonner 

H 

ALLEGRA  . 

Lowell,  James  Russell    . 

15 

ALLIE 

Morse,  James  Herbert    . 

17 

AMANDA     . 

Thomson,  James 

18 

AMARANTHA    . 

Lovelace,  Richard    . 

19 

AMELIA 

Garay,  Aurelio  .... 

20 

AMELIA 

Patmore,  Coventry  . 

2O 

AMY    .... 

Faulkner,  H.  C. 

21 

ANGELINA 

De  Vere,  Aubrey 

22 

ANITA 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn    . 

23 

ANN     .... 

Burns,  Robert   .... 

25 

ANNA  .       .       .  -    . 

Henley,  William  Ernest 

25 

ANNE  .... 

Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth     . 

27 

V 

Contents 


PAGE 

ANNETTA  .  .  .  Esling,  Charles  H.  A.      .        .28 

ANNIE         .  .  .  Rossetti,  Christina  ...      29 

ARIADNE    .  .  .  Hunt,  Leigh      ....      31 

ARABELLA  .  .  Crabbe,  George        ...      31 

AUGUSTA    .  .  .    Saxe,  John  G 33 

AURELIA    .  .  .  Hervey,  Thomas  K.         .        -33 

AURORA      .  .  .  Alexander,  William         .        .      35 

BABETTE    .  .  .  Scollard,  Clinton       ...      36 

BARBARA    .  .  .  Gary,  Alice         ....      37 

BEATRICE  .  .  .    Dante 39 

BEATRICE  .  .  .  Fellowes,  Caroline  W.     .        -39 

BELINDA     .  .  .  Pope,  Alexander       ...      40 

BELLA        .  .  .  Akers,  Elizabeth      ...      41 

BELPHCEBE  .  .  Spenser,  Edmund    ...      43 

BESSIE        .  .  .  Dickinson,  Charles  M.    .        .      44 

BETTINE     .  .  .  Klingle,  George       .       .       •   '  4& 

BIRTHA       .  .  .  Davenant,  Sir  William    .        .      46 

BLANCH      .  .  .  Cawein,  Madison      .        .        .      48 

C.-KLIA         .  . .  .  Bourdillon,  Francis  W.  .        .49 

CAROLINE  .  .  .  Campbell,  Thomas  .        .        .      49 

CASTARA    .  .  .  Habington,  William        .       .      51 

CATHARINA  .  .  Cowper,  William     ...      53 

CECILIA      .  .  .  Douglas,  Evelyn       ...      54 

CECILY        .  .  .  Robinson,  Charles  Newton  .      55 

CELIA  ....  Jonson,  Ben       ....      56 

CELINUA    .  .  .  Herbert,  Edward                            57 

CHARLOTTE  .  .  Wolcott,  John  ....      58 

CHLOE        .  .  .  Field,  Eugene  ....      58 

CHRISTIE    .  .  .  Massey,  Gerald        •        •        •      59 

CLARA         .  .  .  Adams,  James  Meade      .        .      60 

CLARE         .  .  .  Scott,  Sir  Walter                            61 

CLARINDA  .  .  .  Scollard,  Clinton      ...      61 

CLARISSE    .  .  .  Stanton,  Frank  L,.   .        .        .62 

CLOE    .        .  .  .  Prior,  Matthew        ...      63 

CONSTANCE  .  .  Lytton,  Robert  Bulwer  .        .      64 

CONSTANCE  .  .  Garnett,  Richard     ...      64 


Contents 


CORA  ....  Townsend,  Mary  Ashley        .      65 

CORDELIA  .        .        .  Waddle,  Nancy  Mann     .        .      69 

CORINNA     .        .        .  Herrick,  Robert        ...      71 

CRESEIDE  .        .        .  Chaucer,  Geoffrey    ...      74 

CYNTHIA     .        .        .  Kynaston,  Sir  Francis    .        .      75 

DAISY  ....  Townsend,  Mary  Ashley        .      76 

DAISY  ....  Thompson,  Francis         .        .      77 

DAPHNE      .        .        .  Porter,  May      ....      80 

DELIA  ....  Malone,  Walter        ...      80 

DELIA.        .        .        .  Daniel,  Samuel        .        .        .      81 

DIANA         .        .        .  Welsh,  Wilson  K.    .        .        .82 

DIAKEME    .        .        .  Herrick,  Robert       ...      83 

DOLLIE        .        .        .  Peck,  Samuel  Minturn   .        .      83 

DORA  ....  Blackie,  John  Stuart        .        .      85 

DORINDA    .        .        .  Prior,  Matthew         ...      87 

DORIS          .        .        .  Munby,  Arthur  J.    .        .        -87 

DOROTHY   .        .        .  Browne,  M.  Hedderwick        .      89 

DULCINEA  .        .        .  Le  Gallienne,  Richard    .        .      90 

EARINE       .        .        .  Allingham,  William        .        .      91 

EDITH          .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord          .      94 

EDITH         .        .        .  Canfield,  Francesca        .        .      94 

ELAINE       .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord         .      96 

ELEANORA        .        .  Matthews,  James  Newton   .      98 

ELEANORE         .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord         .      99 

ELECTRA    .        .        .  Williams,  Francis  Howard    .    105 

ELFRIDA    .        .        .  Peckham,  Mary  Chase  .        .    106 

ELISE  ....  Gae'lyn,  Henry          .        .        .109 

ELIZA  ....  Burns,  Robert  ....    109 

ELIZABETH        .        .  Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth    .    no 

ELIZABETH         .        .  Wotton,  Sir  Henry  .        .        .     no 

ELLA   ....  Saunderson,  Henry  H.    .        .     in 

ELLEN        .        .        .  Scott,  Sir  Walter       .        .        .113 

ELLEN        .        .        .  White,  Robert  .        .        .        .114 

ELSIE  ....  Brooks,  Fred  Emerson   .        .    115 

EMILY         .        .       .  Forrester,  Ellen       .       .        .117 

EMMA         .        .        .  Burrell,  Lady    .        .        .        .118 


Contents 


PAGE 

ESSIE  ....  Skipsey,  Joseph        .        .  .119 

ESTELLE     .  .  .  Washburn,  William  T.   .  .     120 

ESTHER      .  .  .  Blunt,  William  Scawen  .  .     120 

ETHEL        .  .  .  Scollard,  Clinton      .        .  .121 

ETHEL        .  .  .  Dobson,  Austin         .        .  .122 

ETHELWYN  .  .  Mathers,  Helen        .        .  .122 

ETTARRE    .  .  .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .    123 

EUGENIA    .  .  .  Palgrave,  Francis  Turner  .    124 

EULALIE     .  .  .  Peck,  Samuel  Minturn  .  .    125 

EVA     ....  Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo  .  .    127 

EVANGELINE  .  .  Longfellow,  Henry  W.    .  .    128 

EVELYN      .  .  .  O'Connell,  Daniel    .        .  .    129 

FANNY        .  .  .  Smith,  James  ....    130 

FANNY        .  .  .  Moore,  Thomas        .        .  .131 

FIDESSA      .  .  .  Griffin,  Bartholomew     .  .    132 

FLEURETTE  .  .  Pool,  Fanny  H.  R.   .        .  .     132 

FLORA         .  .  .  Wilson,  A.  Stephen         .  .     134 

FLORENCE  .  .  .  Miller,  Joaquin        .        .  .135 

FLORINE     .  .  .  Freiberger,  Edward        .  .    136 

FRANCES    .  .  .  Poe,  Edgar  Allan     .       .  .    137 

GENEVIEVE  .  .  Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  .    1:37 

GENEVIEVE  .  .  Cooper,  George        .        .  .138 

GENEVRA  .  .  .  Byron,  Lord      .        .       .  .139 

GEORGIANA  .  .  Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  .    140 

GERALDINE  .  .  Clark,  Simeon  Tucker    .  .     141 

GERALDINE  .  .  Locker-Lampson,   Frederick    142 

GERTRUDE  .  .  Campbell,  Thomas  .        .  .     144 

GERTRUDE  .  .  Locker-Lampson,   Frederick    145 

GLADYS      .  .  .  Wolcott,  Dixie  .        .        .  .147 

GRACE        .  .  .  Bell,  Orelia  Key       .        .  .147 

GRACIA       .  .  .  Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler     .  .    148 

GRETCHEN  .  .  Washburn,  William  T.    .  .    149 

GUINEVERE  .  .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .    150 

GWENDALINE  .  .  Lover,  Samuel  .        .        .  .151 

HAIDEE      .  .  .  Byron,  Lord      .        .        .  .152 

HANNAH     .  .  .  Bloomfield,  Robert         .  .    154 


Contents 


PAGE 

HARRIET    .        .        .  Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe     .  .155 

HARRIETT          .        .  Buchanan,  Robert   .        .  .    156 

HEBE  ....  De  la  Ware,  Earl  of        .  .    156 

HELEN        .        .        .  Poe,  Edgar  Allan     .        .  .157 

HELEN        .        .        .  Guiney,  Louise  Imogen  .    158 

HELENS      .        .        .  Lang,  Andrew  ....     159 

HERMIONE         .        .  Procter,  Bryan  Waller    .  .     160 

HERMIONE         .        .  Buchanan,  Robert    .        .  .     161 

HESTER      .        .        .  Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth  .    164 

HKTTY        .       .        .  Monkhouse,  Cosmo         .  .    165 

HILDEGARDE     .        .  Bates,  Margaret  Holmes  .     166 

HINDA         .        .        .  Moore,  Thomas        .        .  .170 

HONORIA    .        .        .  Patmore,  Coventry          .  .171 

IANTHE       .        .        .  Lander,  Walter  Savage  .  .    173 

IANTHE       .        .        .  Byron,  Lord       ....     173 

IDA      ....  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .    175 

IMOGEN      .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .  .    176 

IMOGENE    .        .        .  Marse,  Sidney  Warren   .  .     177 

IMPERIA     .        .        .  Burbidge,  Thomas  .        .  178 

INA       ....  De  Vere,  Aubrey       .        .  .179 

INEZ    ....  Hood,  Thomas         .        .  .    180 

INFELICE    .        .        .  Dekker,  Thomas      .        .  .     182 

IONE    ....  Mahany,  Rowland  B.       .  .     183 

IRENE         .        .        .  Lowell,  James  Russell    .  .    184 

ISA       ....  Bennoch,  Francis     .        .  .    188 

ISABEL        .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .     189 

ISABELLA   .        .       .  Rossetti,  Christina  .        .  .191 

ISABELLA    .        .        .  Harrington,  John    .        .  .    192 

JANE    ....  Hosmer,  \V.  H.  C.    .        .  .    193 

JANET         .        .        .  Watson,  Edward  Willard  .    194 

JEAN    ....  Burns,  Robert  .        .        .  .196 

JEAN    ....  Roger,  Peter     ....    197 

JENNIE       .        .        .  Field,  Eugene          .       .  .    198 

JENNY         .        .        .  Hunt,  Leigh      ....    199 

JESSIE         .        .        .  Tannahill,  Robert    .        .  .    200 

JOAN    ....  James  I.  of  Scotland       .  .    201 


Contents 


PAGE 

JOANNA       .        .        .  Wordsworth,  William    .        .  203 

JOSEPHETA         .        .  Vischer,  Will    ....  204 

JOSEPHINE         .        .  Loveman,  Robert     .        .        .  205 

JOSEPHINE         .        .    Hays,  Will  S 206 

JUDITH        .        .        .  Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey         .  207 

JUDITH        .        .        .  Riley,  James  Whitcomb        .  208 

JULIA  ....  Herrick,  Robert       .        .        .  209 

JULIA  ....  Cawein,  Madison      .        .        .  210 

JULIET        .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William     .        .211 

JULIET        .        .        .  Blunt,  Wilfred  S.  212 

JUNE    ....  Morrow,  Douglas     .        .        .  213 

KATE  ....  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord         .  214 

KATHARINE       .        .  Stevenson,  Robert  Louis        .  215 

KATHERINE       .        .    Long,  Lily  A 215 

KATHLEEN         .        .  Williams,  Richard  D'Alton   .  216 

KATHRINA  .        .        .  Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert          .  218 

KITTY  ....  Fahy,  Francis  A.      ...  219 

LALAGE       .        .        .  Horace,  by  Gladstone     .        .  221 

LALAGK       .        .        .  Cawein,  Madison      .        .        .  222 

LAURA         .        .        .  Petrarca,  by  Higginson  .        .  224 

LAURA         .        .        .  Bland,  IJ.  Nesbit       .        .        .  225 

LAURELLA         .        .  Heyse,  by  Spalding         .        .  226 

LAVINIA      .        .        .  Thomson,  James      .        .        .  227 

LEILA  ....  Byron,  Lord      ....  227 

LEOLINE     .        .        .  Lytton,  Robert  Bulwer    .        .  229 

LEONORA    .        .        .  Craik,  Dinah  M.       .        .        .  232 

LESBIA        .        .        .  de  Fronsac,  Forsyth        .        .  233 

LILIA  ....  Wilson,  A.  Stephen        .        .  234 

LILIAN        .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord          .  235 

LILIAN        .        .        .  Morse,  James  Herbert    .        .  237 

LILITH         .        .        .  McGaffey,  Ernest    .        .        .  237 

LINA     ....  Goethe,    Johann     Wolfgang 

von,  by  Aytoun  and  Martin  238 

LISA     .        .        .        .  Blanden,  Charles  G.       .        .  239 

LISETTE      .        .        .  Morris,  George  P.     .        .        .  239 

LIZZIE  ....  Sterry,  J.  Ashby       .        .        .  240 


Contents 


PAGE 

Lois     ....  Matson,  Cora  A.       .        .        .    241 

LORA   ....  Cawein,  Madison      .        .        .    242 

LORRAINE  .        .        .  Hillard,  Francis   A.        .        .    243 

LOTTIE        .        .        .  Burnett,  James  G.    .        .        .    244 

LOUISA         .        .        .  Wordsworth,  William     .        .     245 

LOUISE        .        .        .  Van  Fredenberg-,  Henry  A.    .    246 

LUCASTA     .        .        .  Lovelace,  Richard    .        .        .    247 

LUCILE        .        .        .  Lytton,  Robert  Bulwer  .        .    248 

LUCRECB     .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .        .    249 

LUCY    ....  Thackeray,  William  M.          .     250 

LUELLA       .        .        .  Cheney,  John  Vance       .        .    251 

LULU    ....  Webb,  Charles  Henry     .        .    253 

LYDIA  ....  Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth     .     254 

LYNETTE    .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord          .     255 

MABEL         .        .        .  Peck,  Samuel  Minturn   .        .     255 

MABEL        .        .        .  Morse,  James  Herbert    .        .    255 

MADELINE  .        .        .  Keats,  John       ....    258 

MADELINE  .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord          .    260 

MADGE        .        .        .    Brown,  F.  S 262 

MAGGIE      .        .        .  Tennant,  William    .        .        .    263 

MARCELLA         .        .  De  Vere,  Aubrey      .        .        .    26s 

MARGARET         .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord          .     265 

MARGERY  .        .        .  Cheney,  John  Vance       .        .    268 

MARGUERITE     .        .  Williams,  Francis  Howard. 

MARGUERITE     .        .  Bisland,  Margaret    . 

MARIAN       .        .        .  Browning-,  Elizabeth  B. 

MARIE         .        .        .  Cawein,  Madison 

MARIE         .        .        .  Saltus,  Francis  S.     . 

MARION      .        .        .  Moulton,  Louise  Chandler 

MARTHA      .        .        .  Martin,  K.  S.     . 

MARY  ....  Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 

MARY  ....  Burns,  Robert  . 

MARY  ....  O'Reilly,  John  Boyle 

MARY  ....  Wordsworth,  William     . 

MATILDA    .        .        .  Lytton,  Robert  Bulwer  . 

MATILDA    .        .        .  Scott,  Sir  Walter 


Contents 


PAGE 

MAUD  ....  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .  283 

MAY     ....  Burns,  Robert   .        .        .  .284 

MEANDREA        .        .  Klingle,  George        .        .  .  286 

MELANIE    .        .        .  Brigham,  W.  L.        .        .  .  288 

MELISSA     .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .  289 

MELISSA     .        .        .  Blacklock,  Thomas         .  .  290 

MIGNON      .        ,        .  Peck,  Samuel  Minturn    .  .  291 

MIGNONNE         .        .  Lytton,  Robert  Bulwer  .  .  292 

MIGNONNE         .        .  Jewett,  Sophie          .        .  .  296 

MILDRED    .        .        .  Patmore,  Coventry  .        .  .  297 

MILDRED    .        .        .  Johnston,  William  Preston  .  297 

MIMI    ....  Beers,  Henry  A.        ...  298 

MINNIE        .        .        .  Irwin,  Thomas  C.    .        .  .  300 

MINNIE        .        .        .  Stevenson,  Robert  Louis  .  301 

MIRANDA    .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .  .  301 

MIRANDA    .        .        .  Harrison,  S.  Frances       .  .  302 

MIRANDA    .        .        .  Falconer,  William   .        .  .  303 

MIRIAM       .        .        .  Kitnball,  Sarah  M.         .  .  304 

MOLLY         .        .        .  Lover,  Samuel  ....  305 

MYRA  ....  Grenville,  Fulke      .        .  .  306 

MYRTILLA  .        .        .  Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey  .  307 

NANCY         .        .        .  Grace,  Alfred  Perceval    .  .  308 

NANIE         .        .        .  Cunningham,  Allan        .  .  310 

NANNY        .        .        .  Hume,  Alexander    .        .  .311 

NATALIE     .        .        .  England,  Howell  Stroud  .  312 

NELL  ....  Rothacker,   Ottomar  H.  .  313 

NELLY         .        .        .  Mitchell,  Joseph      .        .  .  314 

NINA    ....  Tollemache,  B.  W.          .  .  316 

NORA  ....  Moore,  Thomas       .       .  .  317 

NORMA        .        .        .  Scollard,  Clinton      .        .  .  318 

OLIVE  ....  Austin,  Alfred          .        .  .  319 

OLIVIA        .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .  .  319 

PAMELA      .        .        .  Hutch inson,  Ellen  M.     .  .  320 

PANSIE        .        .        .  Ashe,  Thomas  ....  323 

PAULINE     .       .       .  Stringer,  Arthur  J.       .  .  323 

PEARL         .        .        .  Sterry,  J.  Ashby      .        .  .  325 


Contents 


PAGE 

PEGGY         .        .        .  Burns,  Robert   .        .       .  .326 

PENELOPE  .        .        .  McGrath,  Harold     .        .  .327 

PEPITA        .        .        .  Sherman,  Frank  Dempster  .    328 

PERDITA     .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .  .    330 

PERDITA     .        .        .  Klingle,  George       .        .  .331 

PHILIRA      .        .        .  Vanbrugh,  Sir  John       .  .    334 

PHILLIS       .        .        .  Burns,  Robert  .        .        .  .334 

PHCEBE        .        .        .  l,odge,  Thomas       .        .  .    335 

PHYLLIDA  .        .        .  Dobson,  Austin        .        .  .337 

PHYLLIS      .       .        .  Hay,  John        .        .        .  .339 

POLLY  ....  Blackie,  John  Stuart       .  .    340 

PORTIA        .       .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .  .    345 

PRISCILLA  .        .        .  Longfellow,  Henry  W.    .  .344 

PRISCILLA  .        .        .  Scollard,  Clinton      .        .  .345 

PRUDENCE          .       .  Faulkner,  H.  C.        .        .  .    346 

PSYCHE       .        .        .  Browne,  William      .        .  .    348 

RACHEL      .        .       .  Patmore,  Coventry  .        .  .    350 

REBECCA     .        .        .  Lanigan,  G.  T.        .        .  .    350 

ROBINA       .        .        .  Klingle,  George       .        .  .351 

ROMAINE    .        .        .  Wheeler,  Cora  Stuart      .  .    356 

ROMOLA      .        .        .  Ivory,  Bertha  May   .        .  .    356 

ROSA    ....  Moore,  Thomas       .        .  .    359 

ROSALIND  .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .  .    361 

ROSALIND  .        .        .  Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  .  .    362 

ROSALINE  .        .        .  Lodge,  Thomas        ...    364 

ROSE    ....  Dobson,  Austin        .        .  .    366 

ROSIE  ....  Sterry,  J.  Ashby        .        .  .    367 

ROWENA      .        .        .  Chadwick,  John  W.        .  .368 

RUTH   ....  Whittier,  John  Greenleaf  .    370 

RUTH   ....  Hood,  Thomas ....    370 

SAIDA  ....  Washburn,  William  T.   .  .    371 

SALLY  ....  Hawes,  Frank  Mortimer  .    373 

SAMELIA     .        .        .  Greene,  Robert        .        .  .    373 

SARA    ....  Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  .    374 

SIBYL  ....  Payne,  John     .        .        .  .376 

SILVIA        .        .        .  Herrick,  Robert       .        .  .376 


xiv  Contents 

PAGE 

SILVIA         .        .        .  Shakespeare,  William    .        .  377 

STELLA       .        .        .  Sidney,  Sir  Philip    .        .        .  377 

STELLA        .        .        .  Johnson,  Samuel     .        .        .  378 

SUE      ....  Howe,  Julia  Ward    .        .        .  379 

SUSAN          .        .        .  Gay,  John         ....  381 

SXJSETTE     .        .        .  Peck,  Samuel  Minturn   .        .  383 

SYBIL  ....  Ellis,  Joseph     ....  384 

TERESA       .        .        .  Scollard,  Clinton      .        .        .  385 

UNA      ....  Spenser,  Edmund    .        .        .  387 

URANIA       .        .        .  Arnold,  Matthew     .        .        .  389 

URSULA       .        .        .  Washburn,  William  T.          .  390 

VICTORIA    .        .        .  Wilson,  A.  Stephen         .        .  391 

VIOLET        .        *       .  Monkhouse,  W.  C.         .        .  392 

WILHELMEIN     .        .  Lanier,  Clifford        .        .        .  392 

ZARA    ....  Scollard,  Clinton      .        .        .393 


THY  NAME. 


I. 


"V  "AKE  up  thy  pen  and  write 
•*•         What  I  shall  say,  — 
Thus  said  a  Voice  to  me 
One  perfect  day 

In  summer's  regal  prime, 

When  marching  by 
Came  all  the  splendors  of 

The  earth  and  sky 

A-step  to  song  of  birds, 

And  with  the  trees 
For  banners  waving  in 

The  lusty  breeze. 

Take  up  thy  pen  and  write 
What  I  shall  say,  — 


IRame 


And  so  I  wrote  and  wrote 
That  perfect  day  ; 

But  ever}-  word  I  wrote 

Was  just  the  same, 
And  every  word  I  wrote 

Was  just  —  thy  name  ! 

And  when  I  asked  the  Voice, 

I  heard  it  say  : 
No  other  word  is  meet 

For  such  a  day  ! 

II. 

Take  up  thy  pen  and  write 

What  I  shall  say,— 
Thus  said  a  Voice  to  me 

One  dreary  day 

In  winter's  bitter  iime, 
When  earth  and  sky 

Their  gleaming  cohorts  led 
No  longer  by  ; 


IRame. 


A  day  when  all  the  world 

Lost  heart  and  bowed 
Its  head  to  sleet  and  rain 

From  sullen  cloud. 

Take  up  thy  pen  and  -write 

What  I  shall  say,  — 
And  so  I  wrote  and  wrote, 

That  doleful  day  ; 

But  every  word  I  wrote 

Was  just  the  same, 
And  every  word  I  wrote 

Was  just  —  thy  name  ! 

And  when  I  asked  the  Voice, 

I  heard  it  say  : 
No  other  word  gives  life 

To  such  a  day  ! 

WAITMAN  BARBE. 


IN  MY  LADY'S   NAME. 


IN  MY  LADY'S  NAME. 


ADA. 

A  H  !  she  is  nature's  own  sweet  child, 

So  pure  in  mind  and  heart, 
Still  unsuspecting,  unbeguiled, 
And  all  unspoiled  by  art  ! 

Health  beats  within  her  rounded  zone 

And  glows  in  every  vein  ; 
Her  bosom  is  a  living  throne, 

Where  sweet  affections  reign  ! 

Her  golden  hair  in  rippling  waves 

Flows  softly  o'er  her  brow  ; 
Her  snowy  shoulders,  where  it  laves, 

Peer  just  a  little  through  ! 

Cheeks  that  outblush  the  morning  rose, 

A  brow  that  rivals  snow, 
Lips  that  the  ruby's  tints  disclose — 

These  need  no  pencilled  glow  ! 

3 


A  gentle  breast  that  knows  no  sin, 
In  faith  and  virtue  strong  ; 

It  keeps  its  modesty  within, 
And  never  dreams  of  wrong  ! 

There  is  no  sin  or  wrong  in  truth, 
Whate'er  the  form  it  takes  ; 

Her  sparkling  eyes  and  rosy  mouth 
Reveal  it  ere  she  speaks  ! 

Her  virgin  heart  and  mind  of  light, 
Her  soft,  sweet,  winning  tone, 

With  many  a  nameless  charm  unite, 
And  blend  them  all  in  one  ! 

She  needs  not  fashion's  narrow  rule 

To  guide  her  feet  secure  ; 
Her  wildest  ways  are  beautiful, 

Her  freest  thoughts  are  pure  ! 

There  is  a  cadence  in  her  step, 
Her  very  motions  rhyme  ; 

And  there  is  music  in  her  lip, 
Her  language  is  a  chime  ! 

Such  beauty  needs  no  artful  wile 

Its  dignity  to  prove  ; 
It  needs  no  taught  or  practised  smile 

To  win  and  keep  our  love  ! 


aoeltne 

She  brings  us  confidence  and  joy, 
And  leaves  sweet  memories — 

A  pleasure  that  can  never  cloy, 
A  charm  that  never  dies  ! 

And  only  nature  can  impart 

A  grace  so  beautiful  ; 
It  springs  from  purity  of  heart, 

And  dwells  within  the  soul  ! 

HORACE  P.  &IDDLK. 


ADELINE. 
I. 

MYSTERY  of  mysteries, 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 
But  bey.ond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

2. 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 
Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 


BDeline 

Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 
As  a  Naiad  in  a  well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  passed  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 

Spiritual  Adeline? 

3- 

What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone  : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies, 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings  ? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  ? 
Hast  thou  looked  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreamy  Adeline  ? 


SDeltne 

4- 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 

And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  stniler,  Adeline  ? 

5- 
Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn, 

Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  I/ight  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still, 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 

Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 


ADELLE. 

"THOUGH  the  hopes  I  have  left  be  not  many, 

I  have  one  which  is  second  to  none, 
A  hope  that  is  dearer  than  any, 
And  it  is — tho'  this  all  may  be  ill  or  be  well — 
That  perhaps  in  the  fairer  Hereafter,  Adelle, 
You  and  I  will  be  one. 

The  streams  which  so  tenderly  blended 

To  their  ocean  divided  may  run  ; 
But  perhaps,  when  their  course  is  all  ended, 
Perhaps — tho'  this  all  may  be  ill  or  be  well — 
Perhaps  in  the  vaster  Hereafter,  Adelle, 

The  two  may  be  one. 

The  days  of  affection  have  faded, 
The  nights  of  our  visions  are  gone  ; 

And  we — we  shall  pass  e'en  as  they  did  ; 

But  perhaps — tho'  this  all  may  be  ill  or  be  well — 

Perhaps  in  the  mighty  Hereafter,  Adelle, 
You  and  I  shall  be  one. 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON. 
"To  Adelle." 


SDriana  9 

ADRIANA. 

A  RTEVELDE.—  Oh,  she  is  fair ! 

As  fair  as  Heaven  to  look  upon  !  as  fair 
As  ever  vision  of  the  Virgin  blest 
That  weary  pilgrim,  resting  by  the  fount 
Beneath  the  palm  and  dreaming  of  the  tune 
Of  flowing  waters,  duped  his  soul  withal. 
It  was  permitted  me  in  my  pilgrimage 
To  rest  beside  the  fount  beneath  the  tree, 
Beholding  there  no  vision,  but  a  maid 
Whose  form  was  light  and  graceful  as  the  palm, 
Whose  heart  was  pure  and  jocund  as  the  fount, 
And  spread  a  freshness  and  a  verdure  round. 

SIR  HENRY  TAYLOR. 
From  "  Philip  Van  Artevelde. " 


AGATHA. 

\X7ERE  her  face  as  dusk  as  twilight, 

When  the  soft  September  eves 
Darken  slowly  in  the  shadow 

Till  the  daybeam  is  no  more, 
I  would  make  her  blaze  with  jewels, 

As  the  night,  when  it  receives 
One  by  one  the  starry  splendors, 

Sprinkling  all  the  heavens  o'er : 


Bgatba 

Diamonds  from  her  ebon  tresses 

Should  outflash  their  living  light ; 
On  her  fingers,  rubies,  sapphires, 

Gems  of  loveliest  hue  should  gleam  ; 
Oh,  but  I  would  make  her  glorious 

As  the  star-encinctured  night ! 
Oh,  but  I  would  make  her  lovelier 

Than  the  poet's  fondest  dream ! 

But  her  brow  is  fair  as  morning 

When  no  mists  its  beauty  shroud  ; 
And  her  shining  auburn  ringlets 

Like  a  sunlit  torrent  fall 
Down  the  dainty  neck  whose  whiteness, 

Gleaming  through  a  golden  cloud, 
Seems  a  snow-wreath  in  the  splendor 

That  the  day  flings  over  all  ! 
Oh,  her  eyes  were  made  to  worship, 

With  their  depths  of  heavenly  blue  ! 
Oh,  her  mouth  was  made  for  kisses, 

With  its  dewy-luscious  lips  ! 
And  the  heaven  of  her  caresses, 

Warm  and  passionate  and  true, 
Fills  me  with  delirious  rapture, 

Thrilling  to  my  finger-tips. 

Were  her  name  a  mark  for  slander, 
Hissing  out  its  venomed  lies, 

Till  the  world,  with  face  averted, 
Smote  her  with  its  cruel  scorn, 


Bgatba 

I,  against  a  mad  world's  clamor, 

Would  believe  those  holy  eyes, — 
Mirror  of  a  soul  where  only 

White  and  starry  thoughts  are  born  ! 
I  would  build  my  faith  around  her 

Like  a  fortress  of  defense, 
From  the  malice  of  the  evil, 

From  the  meanness  of  the  proud  ; 
I  would  lavish  love  upon  her, 

Self-forgetting  and  intense, 
Till  the  light  of  joy  should  scatter 

From  her  pathway,  every  cloud  ! 

But  the  evil  tongue  is  palsied 

That  would  dare  to  wrong  her  name  ; 
And  for  her  the  lip  of  cursing 

Can  speak  nothing  but  a  prayer  ; 
Bven  envy  casts  no  shadow 

O'er  the  whiteness  of  her  fame, 
For  the  angels  guard  their  sister 

With  a  proud  and  loving  care  ! 
Oh,  I  love  her  for  her  beauty, 

Brighter  than  the  poet's  dreams 
When  elysian  splendors  haunt  him 

And  his  life  is  most  divine  ! 
Oh,  I  love  her  for  her  goodness, 

For  the  gentle  soul  that  seems 
Kindred  with  the  star-crowned  spirits, 

For  the  pledge  that  makes  her  mine  ! 

WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH. 


12  Bgnes 

AGNES. 

A  S  stars  are  dimm'd  when  full-orbed  Dian  fills 
With  her  resplendent  light  an  Autumn  sky : 
As  fragrant  musk  all  fainter  perfume  kills, 

And  roses  shame   the  flow'rs  that  blossom 

nigh: 
So,  Agnes,  pale  and  pure,  thy  charms  outvie 

The  brightest  stars  in  fancy's  boundless  space; 
Soft  as  an  od'rous  zephyr  is  thy  sigh, 

And  fairer  than  a  lily  is  thy  face. 
But  brighter  still,  and  purer,  and  more  fair 

Than  outward  beauty,  draped  in  cloth  of  gold, 
Are  those  rich  ornaments  thy  soul  doth  wear — 

Truth,  Hope,  a  Tenderness  of  depth  untold, 
A  helpful  Instinct,  sweet  as  it  is  rare, 

A  Patience  that  abides,  a  Ivove  that  grows  not 

cold. 

JOSEPH  TATLOW. 


AGNES. 

JV/l  Y  little  Agnes, — there  she  goes, 

Just  watch  her  while  I  speak, — 
How  like  the  petals  of  a  rose 

Her  rounded  damask  cheek. 
Those  eyes, — the  wild  bee  never  sips 

A  violet  half  so  fair  ; 
And  mark  those  dainty  roguish  lips, — 

What  sweetness  revels  there  ! 


aicinea  13 

See  how  the  daisies  scatter  dew 

About  her  as  she  goes  ; 
The  violets  their  clear  eyes  of  blue 

In  wondering  gaze  unclose. 
The  grass  she  presses  with  her  feet 

Is  greener  when  she  's  gone  ; 
It  looks  more  beautiful  and  sweet. 

For  she  has  walked  thereon. 

Oh,  never  care  or  weeping  dole 

Shall  fill  her  gentle  breast  ; 
The  sacred  beauty  of  her  soul 

Shines  out  a  spirit  blest. 
Her  voice  is  music  to  my  ear, 

Her  smile  is  light  divine  ; 
There  's  never  sorrow  when  she  's  near, — 

My  Agnes, — and  she  's  mine  ! 

DANIEL  J.  DONAHOE. 
'My  Little  Agnes." 


ALCINEA. 

LJ  ER  bosom  is  like  milk,  her  neck  like  snow  ; 
A  rounded  neck  ;  a  bosom,  where  you  see 
Two  crisp  young  ivory  apples  come  and  go, 

Like  waves,  that  on  the  coast  beat  tenderly, 
When  a  sweet  air  is  ruffling  to  and  fro. 

ARIOSTO. 
Translated  by  Leigh  Hunt. 


14  Slice 

ALICE. 

C  HE  feels  her  beauty's  presence  as  the  spring 

Must  feel  her  April  sky  ; 
She  only  knows  the  gladness  it  doth  bring, 

Nor  dreams  of  reasons  why 
Each  charmed  hour  should  come  on  noiseless 
wing 

And  flit  as  lightly  by. 

Before  the  fire  she  sits  with  low-bent  head 

And  slender  folded  hands  ; 
The  glow  from  purple  flame  and  embers  red 

Lights  up  those  distant  lands 
Where  her  young  spirit  walks  with  gentle  tread, 

Or,  meditative,  stands. 

And  as  she  wanders  through  those  airy  spheres 

Of  fancy,  far  away, 
No  voice  from  all  her  real  world  she  hears, 

No  sounds  her  footsteps  stay, 
But  as  she  goes  great  shining  walls  she  rears, 

Nor  heeds  them  lightly  sway. 

And  towers  and  archways  grand  her  maiden 
might 

With  confidence  essays  ; 
And  golden  pinnacles  of  wondrous  height 

The  dextrous  fingers  raise, 


Bllegra  15 

To  glow  and  sparkle  in  the  warm  delight 
Of  tranquil  summer  days. 


At  last  the  magic  palace  stands  complete, 

And  in  it  she  espies 
Its  blushing  mistress,  winsome,  fair,  and  sweet, 

With  gladness  in  her  eyes, 
And  on  her  lips,  a  frank  confession  meet 

For  love  that  scorns  disguise. 

And  standing  close  beside  her  may  be  seen, 

With  triumph  in  his  face, 
The  royal  master  with  most  royal  mien, 

And  full  of  kingly  grace, 
Who,  smiling,  gives  that  homage  to  his  queen 

He  takes  from  all  his  race. 

BLANCHE  BONNER  WRIGHT. 


ALLEGRA. 

T  WOULD  more  natures  were  like  thine, 

That  never  casts  a  glance  before, — 
Thou  Hebe,  who  thy  heart's  bright  wine 

So  lavishly  to  all  dost  pour, 
That  we  who  drink  forget  to  pine, 

And  can  but  dream  of  bliss  in  store. 


16  Bllegra 

Thou  canst  not  see  a  shade  in  life  : 
With  sunward  instinct  thou  dost  rise, 

And,  leaving  clouds  below  at  strife, 
Gazest  undazzled  at  the  skies, 

With  all  their  blazing  splendors  rife, 
A  songful  lark  with  eagle's  eyes. 

Thou  wast  some  foundling  whom  the  Hours 
Nursed,  laughing,  with  the  milk  of  Mirth  ; 

Some  influence  more  gay  than  ours 
Hath  ruled  thy  nature  from  its  birth, 

As  if  thy  natal  stars  were  flowers 
That  shook  their  seeds  round  thee  on  earth. 


And  thou,  to  lull  thy  infant  rest, 
Wast  cradled  like  an  Indian  child  : 

All  pleasant  winds  from  south  and  west 
With  lullabies  thine  ears  beguiled, 

Rocking  thee  in  thine  oriole's  nest, 
Till  Nature  looked  at  thee  and  smiled. 


Thine  every  fancy  seems  to  borrow 
A  sunlight  from  thy  childish  years, 

Making  a  golden  cloud  of  sorrow, 
A  hope-lit  rainbow  out  of  tears, — 

Thy  heart  is  certain  of  to-morrow, 
Though  'yond  to-day  it  never  peers. 


Btlie  17 

I  would  more  ratures  were  like  thine, 

So  innocently  wild  and  free, 
Whose  sad  thoughts,  even,  leap  and  shine, 

L,ike  sunny  wavelets  in  the  sea, 
Making  us  mindless  of  the  brine, 

In  gazing  on  the  brilliancy. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  I/OWELL. 


CNVY  thou  the  sweet  possession 

Of  a  spirit  pure  and  mild, 
That  no  part  of  least  transgression, 

That  no  wasted  years,  or  wild, 
Hath  to  ruffle  o'er  its  pearly, 
Tranquil  waters  late  and  early. 

Such  a  lovely  spirit  Allie 
Carries  with  her  to  the  grots  ; 

And  her  silent  feet  keep  tally 
Ever  to  her  silent  thoughts  : 

Nothing  in  her  out  of  keeping 

With  green  dales  and  lilies  sleeping. 

When  she  comes  within  the  shadow, 
Fashioned  darkly  to  her  mind, 

Of  a  maple-bordered  meadow, 
In  small  compass  all  confined, — 


1 8  Bman&a 

There  a  brook  'neath  long  grass  shrinking 
Still  keeps  time  to  Allie's  thinking. 

There,  beneath  the  water's  gliding, 
Minnows  hear,  and  shining  dace, 

And  come  boldly  from  their  hiding, 
To  look  on  her  pretty  face — 

Their  long  fear  fulness  in  token 

Of  her  artlessness  now  broken. 

Walking  thoughtfully,  she  marries 
Her  quick  soul  to  every  sound, 

And  within  her  bosom  carries 
That  which  all  sweets  cluster  round. 

Nature's  thousand  pearl-eyes  glisten, 

When  such  pure  ones  look  or  listen. 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE. 


AMANDA. 

,  dear  Amanda,  quit  the  town, 
7"^     And  to  the  rural  hamlets  fly  ; 
Behold  !  the  wintry  storms  are  gone  ; 
A  gentle  radiance  glads  the  sky. 

The  birds  awake,  the  flowers  appear, 
Earth  spreads  a  verdant  couch  for  thee  ; 

'T  is  joy  and  music  all  we  hear, 
'T  is  love  and  beauty  all  we  see. 


Bmarantba  19 

Come,  let  us  mark  the  gradual  spring, 
How  peeps  the  bud,  the  blossom  blows  ; 

Till  Philomel  begins  to  sing, 

And  perfect  May  to  swell  the  rose. 

E'en  so  thy  rising  charms  improve, 
As  life's  warm  season  grows  more  bright ; 

And,  opening  to  the  sighs  of  love, 
Thy  beauties  glow  with  full  delight. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 
"To  Amanda." 


AMARANTHA. 

A  MARANTHA,  sweet  and  fair, 

Oh,  braid  no  more  that  shining  hair ! 
Let  it  fly,  as  unconfined, 
As  its  calm  ravisher,  the  wind  ; 
Who  hath  left  his  darling,  th'  east, 
To  wanton  o'er  that  spicy  nest. 
Every  tress  must  be  confest, 
But  neatly  tangled,  at  the  best ; 
Like  a  clue  of  golden  thread 
Most  excellently  ravelled. 
Do  not,  then,  wind  up  that  light 
In  ribands,  and  o'ercloud  in  night, 
Like  the  sun's  in  early  ray  ; 
But  shake  your  head,  and  scatter  day  ! 

RICHARD  LOVELACE. 
•"Song." 


20  Smelia 

AMELIA. 

C  ARTH  was  a  bower  of  roses  rare  and  pale, 

And  heaven  a  starry  sea  ; 
Through  the  soft  shadow  sang  the  nightingale 

His  wondrous  melody. 
'T  was   springtime,  and    the   dewy   dawn    was 

wet, — 

When  from  its  dreaming  stirred, 
The  flower's  soul  in  sweetness  rising  met 

The  bright  soul  of  the. bird  ; 
And  from  that  kiss  thy  loveliness  was  born  : 

Fair  shrine  that  doth  enclose 
The  song-bird's  voice,  the  gladness  of  the  morn, 
The  perfume  of  the  rose. 

AURELIO  GARAY. 
Translated  by  Mary  E.  Blake. 


AMELIA. 

\X/HENE'ER  mine  eyes  do  my  Amelia  greet 

It  is  with  such  emotion 

As  when,  in  childhood,  turning  a  dim  street, 
I  first  beheld  the  ocean. 
There,  where  the  little,  bright,  surf-breathing 

town, 

That  showed  me  first  her  beauty  and  the  sea, 
Gathers  its  skirts  against  the  gorse-gilt  down 
And  scatters  gardens  o'er  the  southern  lea, 


Bing  21 

Abides  this  Maid 

Within  a  kind,  yet  sombre  Mother's  shade, 

Who   of  her  daughter's   graces   seems  almost 

afraid, 

Viewing  them  ofttimes  with  a  scared  forecast, 
Caught,  haply,  from  obscure  love-peril  past. 
Howe'er  that  be, 
She  scants  me  of  my  right, 
Is  cunning  careful  evermore  to  balk 
Sweet  separate  talk, 
And  fevers  my  delight 
By  frets,  if,  on  Amelia's  cheek  of  peach, 
I  touch  the  notes  which  music  cannot  reach, 
Bidding  "  Good-night !  " 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


AMY. 

A  MY,  of  old  a  bold  knight, 

Naming  his  lady-love  true 
Ere  he  went  forth  to  the  fight, 

Conquered  a  foeman  or  two; 
Victory  surely  I  might 

Claim  for  my  love,  for  I,  too, 
Whisper  your  name  in  my  plight, 

A.my,aimee,  m'aimez-vous  ? 

A.wy,jet-aime;  that  is  trite, 
Tell  me  how  better  to  woo ; 


Hngelina 

Shall  I  an  Iliad  write 

Or  a  perfumed  billet-doux  ? 
No — are  you  satisfied  quite, 

Tell  me,  my  sweetest,  are  you  ? 
Answer  me,  mischievous  sprite, 

Amy,  aimee,  m^aimez-vous? 

Amy,  why  turu  from  my  sight 

Eyes  of  such  lovely  blue? 
Is  it  for  fear  that  I  might 

Guess  what  is  hidden  from  view  ? 
Do  your  fair  cheeks,  that  were  white, 

Blush  a  soft  "  yes  "  when  I  sue  ? 
Do  your  eyes  fill  with  love  light, 

Amy,  aimee,  m1  aimez-vous  ? 

I/ ENVOI. 
Amy,  my  arms  hold  you  tight, 

Captive  you  are  until  you 
Answer,  and  answer  aright, 

Amy,  aimee,  m' aimez-vous  ? 

H.  C.  FAULK.NKR. 


ANGELINA. 

POR  ever  gentle,  sweet,  and  lone, 

Her  voice,  her  step,  her  hand  subdued, 
She  moves  like  one  who  ne'er  has  known 
The  changes  of  a  human  mood. 


Hntta  23 

The  tender  dawn  of  those  fair  eyes 

Breaks,  vaguely  sweet,  through  tears  unfail- 
ing ; 
Waking  strange  Fancies  ;  Memories 

As  sweet,  as  strange  recalling. 

A  soft  shade  makes  her  face  more  fair  : — 

Not  softer,  slanted  from  above 
On  lilies  rocked  in  evening  air 

That  shadow  from  the  Star  of  Love  ! 

Say,  has  she  loved  ?     In  some  far  sphere 
Perhaps  she  loved,  and  loved  in  vain  ; 

And  still  in  this  cold  exile  here 

Forgets  the  cause,  but  feels  the  pain. 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


ANITA. 

G  HE  's  a  pretty  puss  in  boots, 
With  a  saucy  name  that  suits 

Every  glance. 
Is  it  whispered,  is  it  sung, 
Still  it  ripples  on  the  tongue 

In  a  dance. 


24  Hnita 

Oh,  she  walks  so  pit-a-pat, 
And  she  talks  of  this  and  that 

Such  a  way, 

Just  to  watch  her  witching  blush 
Even  vSocrates  would  hush 

Half  a  day. 

She  is  not  an  angel ;  no  ! 
They  are  out  o'  place  below, 

Let  us  grieve. 

Yet  perchance  there  is  a  wing 
Hid  beneath  that  puffy  thing 

Styled  a  sleeve. 

Her  singing  makes  me  think 
Of  a  tricksy  bobolink 

All  delight, 

With  his  silver  strain  aflow 
Where  the  apple-blossoms  blow 

Pink  and  white. 

Like  a  wild  rose,  newly  born, 
Bursting  into  bloom  at  morn, 

Dew  agleam, 

So  entrancing  is  her  smile, 
Lo,  it  haunts  me  all  the  while 

In  a  dream. 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 


aim  25 

ANN. 

YE  gallants  bright,  I  red  ye  right, 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann  ; 
Her  comely  face  sae  fu'  o'  grace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 
Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night, 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan  ; 
Sae  jimpy  lac'd  her  genty  waist, 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  grace,  and  love  attendant  move, 

And  pleasure  leads  the  van  : 
In  a'  their  charms,  and  conquering  arms, 

They  wait  on  bonnie  Ann. 
The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 

But  love  enslaves  the  man  ; 
Ye  gallants  braw,  I  red  you  a', 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
;  Bonnie  Ann." 


ANNA. 

DROWN  is  for  Lalage,  Jones  for  Lelia, 

Robinson's  bosom  for  Beatrice  glows, 
Smith  is  a  Hamlet  before  Ophelia. 
The  glamour  stays  if  the  reason  goes, 


26 


Bvery  lover  the  years  disclose 
Is  of  a  beautiful  name  made  free. 

One  befriends,  and  all  others  are  foes  : 
Anna  's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

Sentiment  hallows  the  vowels  of  Delia  ; 

Sweet  simplicity  breathes  from  Rose  ! 
Courtly  memories  glitter  in  Celia  ; 

Rosalind  savors  of  quips  and  hose, 

Araminta  of  wits  and  beaux, 
Prue  of  puddings,  and  Coralie 

All  of  sawdust  and  spangled  shows  ; 
Anna  's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

Fie  upon  Caroline,  Jane,  Amelia— 

These  I  reckon  the  essence  of  prose  !  — 

Mystical  Magdalen,  cold  Cornelia, 

Adelaide's  attitudes,  Mopsa's  mowes, 
Maud's  magnificence,  Totty's  toes, 

Poll  and  Bet  with  their  twang  of  the  sea, 
Nell's  impertinence,  Pamela's  woes  ! 

Anna  's  the  name  of  names  for  me. 

ENVOY. 
Ruth  like  a  gillyflower  smells  and  blows, 

Sylvia  prattles  of  Arcady, 
Portia  's  only  a  Roman  nose, 

Anna  's  the  name  of  names  for  me  ! 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 
Of  Ladies'  Names." 


Bnne  27 

ANNE. 

LJ  ER  eyes  be  like  the  violets, 
Ablow  in  Sudbury  laue  ; 
When  she  doth  smile,  her  face  is  sweet 

As  blossoms  after  rain  ; 
With  grief  I  think  of  my  gray  hairs, 

And  wish  me  young  again. 

In  comes  she  through  the  dark  old  door 

Upon  this  Sabbath  day  ; 
And  she  doth  bring  the  tender  wind 

That  sings  in  bush  and  tree  ; 
And  hints  of  all  the  apple  boughs 

That  kissed  her  by  the  way. 

Our  parson  stands  up  straight  and  tall, 

For  our  dear  souls  to  pray, 
And  of  the  place  where  sinners  go, 

Some  grewsome  things  doth  say  ; 
Now,  she  is  highest  Heaven  to  me  ; 

So  Hell  is  far  away. 

Most  stiff  and  still  the  good  folk  sit 

To  hear  the  sermon  through  ; 
But  if  our  God  be  such  a  God, 

And  if  these  things  be*true, 
Why  did  He  make  her  then  so  fair, 

And  both  her  eves  so  blue  ? 


28  Bnnetta 

A  flickering  light,  the  sun  creeps  in, 
And  finds  her  sitting  there  ; 

And  touches  soft  her  lilac  gown, 
And  soft  her  yellow  hair  ; 

I  looked  across  to  that  old  pew, 
And  have  both  praise  and  prayer. 

Oh,  violets  in  Sudbury  lane, 

Amid  the  grasses  green, 
This  maid  who  stirs  ye  with  her  feet 

Is  far  more  fair,  I  ween  ! 
I  wonder  how  my  forty  years 

I/ook  by  her  sweet  sixteen  ! 

LlZETTE    WOODWORTH   REESE. 


ANNETTA. 

/^NE  day,  all  satiate  with  sport 

Of  piercing  hearts  unto  their  marrow, 
Cupid,  asleep  in  Sylvan  Court, 

Awoke  and  missed  both  bow  and  arrow. 

Then  in  commingled  grief  and  rage 

He  roamed  as*far  as  e'er  love's  star  gets, 

And  for  a  while  earth  owned  an  age 

Of  unpierced  hearts,  love's  virgin  targets. 


Bnnte  29 

But  o'er  his  path  Annetta  trips, 
A  vision  of  lost  treasures  flashes — 

His  ruby  bow, — her  arching  lips, 

His  quivered  darts,  her  trembling  lashes. 

CHARLES  H.  A.  ESLING. 


ANNIE. 

A  NNIE  is  fairer  than  her  kith 
And  kinder  than  her  kin  ; 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  open  heaven 

Holy  and  pure  from  sin  : 
Her  heart  is  like  an  ordered  house 

Good  fairies  harbor  in  : 
Oh,  happy  he  who  wins  the  love 

That  I  can  never  win  ! 


Her  sisters  stand  as  hyacinths 

Around  the  perfect  rose  : 
They  bloom  and  open  to  the  full, 

My  bud  will  scarce  unclose. 
They  are  for  every  butterfly 

That  comes  and  sips  and  goes  ; 
My  bud  hides  in  the  tender  green 

Most  sweet,  and  hardly  shows. 


30  Bnnie 

Oh,  cruel  kindness  in  soft  eyes 

That  are  no  more  than  kind, 
On  which  I  gaze  my  heart  away 

Till  the  tears  make  me  blind  ! 
How  is  it  others  find  the  way 

That  I  can  never  find 
To  make  her  laugh  that  sweetest  laugh 

Which  leaves  all  else  behind  ? 


Her  hair  is  like  the  golden  corn 

A  low  wind  breathes  upon  : 
Or  like  the  golden  harvest-moon 

When  all  the  mists  are  gone  : 
Or  like  a  stream  with  golden  sands 

On  which  the  sun  has  shone 
Day  after  day  in  summer  time 

Ere  autumn  leaves  are  wan. 


I  will  not  tell  her  that  I  love, 

Lest  she  should  turn  away 
With  sorrow  in  her  tender  heart 

Which  now  is  light  and  gay. 
I  will  not  tell  her  that  I  love, 

Lest  she  should  turn  and  say 
That  we  must  meet  no  more  again 

For  many  a  weary  day. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


BriOane  31 

ARIADNE. 

'THE  moist  and  quiet  morn  was  scarcely  break- 
ing, 

When  Ariadne  in  her  bower  was  waking  ; 
Her  eyelids  still  were  closing,  and  she  heard 
But  indistinctly  yet  a  little  bird, 
That  in  the  leaves  o'erhead,  waiting  the  sun, 
Seemed  answering  another  distant  one. 
She  waked,  but  stirred  not,  only  just  to  please 
Her  pillow-nestling  cheek  ;  while  the  full  seas, 
The   birds,    the  leaves,    the   lulling  love  o'er- 

night, 

The  happy  thought  of  the  returning  light, 
The  sweet,  self-willed  content,  conspired  to 

keep 

Her  senses  lingering  in  the  field  of  sleep  ; 
And  with  a  little  smile  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  I  know  my  love  is  near  me,  and  't  is  day." 

I/EIGH  HUNT. 


ARABELLA. 

(~\F  a  fair  town  where  Doctor  Rack  was  guide, 
His  only   daughter  was    the    boast    and 

pride  ; 

Wise  Arabella,  yet  not  wise  alone, 
She  like  a  bright  and  polished  brilliant  shone  ; 


32  Arabella 

Her  father  owned  her  for  his  prop  and  stay, 

Able  to  guide,  yet  willing  to  obey  ; 

Pleased  with  her  learning  while  discourse  could 

please, 

And  with  her  love  in  languor  and  disease  : 
To  every  mother  were  her  virtues  known, 
And  to  their  daughters  as  a  pattern  shown  : 
Who  in  her  youth  had  all  that  age  requires, 
And  with  her  prudence,  all  that  youth  admires. 


This  reasoning  Maid,  above  her  sex's  dread, 
Had  dared  to  read,  and  dared  to  say  she  read, 
Not  the  last  novel,  not  the  new-born  play  ; 
Not  the  mere  trash  and  scandal  of  the  day, 
Bui   (though   her  young   companions  felt   the 

shock) 
She     studied     Berkeley,    Bacon,    Hobbes,    and 

Locke  : 

Her  mind  within  the  maze  of  history  dwelt, 
And  of  the  moral  Muse  the  beauty  felt  : 
The  merits  of  the  Roman  page  she  knew, 
And  could  converse  with  More  and  Montagu  : 
Thus  she  became  the  wonder  of  the  town, 
From  that  she  reaped,  to  that  she  gave  renown, 
And  strangers  coming,  all  were  taught  t'  admire 
The  learned  lady,  and  the  lofty  spire. 

GEORGE  CRABBE. 
From  "  Arabella." 


augusta  33 

AUGUSTA. 

' '  Incedit  regina  !  ' ' 

"  LJ  ANDSOME  and  haughty  !  "—a  comment 

that  came 
From  lips  which  were  never  accustomed  to 

malice  ; 
A  girl  with  a  presence  superb  as  her  name, 

And  charmingly  fitted  for  love — in  a  palace  ! 
Aud  oft  I  have  wished  (for  in  musing  alone 

One's  fancy  is  apt  to  be  very  erratic) 
That  the  lady  might  wear — No  !     I  never  will 

own 

A  thought  so  decidedly  undemocratic  ! — 
But  if  't  were  a  coronet— this  I  '11  aver, 

No  duchess  on  earth  could  more  gracefully 

wear  it ; 
And  even  a  democrat,  thinking  of  her, 

Might  surely  be  pardoned  for  wishing  to 
share  it ! 

JOHN  G.  SAXE. 


AURELIA. 

\A7ITH  gazing  on  those  charms  of  thine, 

My  soul  grows  sad  and  faint ; 
But,  turning  to  Saint  Valentine, 
Who  is  a  gentle  saint, 


34  Burelia 

Said  I,  the  fair  Aurelia  keeps 
Her  spirit  locked  from  me  : 

Oh,  show  my  weary  heart  the  hook 
On  which  she  hangs  the  key  ! 

Her  breast  is  like  a  frozen  lake, 

On  whose  cold  brink  I  stand  ; 
Oh,  buckle  on  my  spirit's  skates, 

And  take  me  by  the  hand  ! 
And  lead  thou,  loving  saint,  the  way 

To  where  the  ice  is  thin, 
That  it  may  break  beneath  my  feet 

And  let  a  lover  in. 

I  see  the  honey  on  her  lip, — 

Have  pity,  saint,  on  me, 
And  turn  a  lonely  gentleman 

Into  a  humble-bee. 
Why  is  it  that  an  eye  whose  light 

Should  feed  but  bright-hued  petals, 
In  my  poor  heart  makes  only  night, 

And  grows  but  stinging  nettles  ? 

Whatever  men  have  sung  of  old 

Of  Cynthia  or  Amelia, 
Seems  flat,  and  tame,  and  dull,  and  cold, 

To  paint  the  young  Aurelia. 
All  voices  in  my  dreams  seem  hers, 

And,  through  my  fancies  looming, 


Burora  35 

All  other  forms  put  on  the  form 
Of  bright  Aurelia's  blooming. 

Help,  help,  from  thee,  Saint  Valentine  ! 

Bring  forth  thy  strongest  spell, 
Go  boldly  to  her  soul's  shut  gate, 

And  ring  her  spirit's  bell, 
That  she  may  ope  the  door  at  last 

Unto  my  long  desire, 
And  I  take  up  my  chair  for  life 

Beside  her  young  heart's  fire. 

THOMAS  KIBBLE  HERVEY. 
;  Aurelia  :  A  Valentine." 


,         AURORA. 

(^H,  if  thou  knew'st  how  thou  thyself  dost 

harm, 
And    dost  prejudge   thy   bliss,    and  spoil   my 

rest ; 
Then   thou   wouldst  melt  the  ice   out  of  thy 

breast 
And  thy  relenting  heart  would  kindly  warm. 

Oh,  if  thy  pride  did  not  our  joys  control, 
What  world  of  loving  wonders  shouldst  thou 
see  ! 


36  JSabette 

For  if  I  saw  thee  once  transform'd  in  me, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  I  would  pour  my  soul  ; 

Then   all   my   thoughts  should   in   thy   visage 

shine, 
And  if  that  aught  mischanced  thou  shouldst  not 

moan 

Nor  bear  the  burthen  of  thy  griefs  alone  ; 
No,  I  would  have  my  share  in  what  were  thine  : 

And  whilst  we  thus  should  make  our  sorrows 

one, 
This  happ}'  harmony  would  make  them  none. 

WILLIAM  ALEXANDER,  EARL  OF  STIRLING. 
"To  Aurora." 


BABETTE. 

I  JNDER  the  old  regime,  Babette, 

Do  you  remember  how 
We  plucked  the  fragrant  violet 

And  twined  the  myrtle-bough? 
The  myrtle  was  for  love,  Babette, 

For  fond  youth's  joyous  dream  ! 
Can  you  those  happy  days  forget 

Under  the  old  regime  ? 


36art>ara  37 

Was  not  the  sky  a  brighter  blue, 

The  birds'  song  sweeter  then  ? 
Were  not  the  maids  more  fair  and  true, 

And  manlier  the  men  ? 
Upon  yon  warm  slope,  southward  set, 

How  bent  the  olives  seem  ! 
They  were  not  so  of  yore,  Babette, 

Under  the  old  regime. 

Under  the  old  regime,  Babette, 

How  light  of  heart  we  were  ! 
There  were  no  grass-grown  graves  as  yet 

Beneath  the  sombre  fir. 
How  mournful  is  the  wind's  hoarse  fret, 

How  sad  the  twilight's  gieam  ! 
Oh,  to  be  back  again,  Babette, 

Under  the  old  regime  ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


BARBARA. 


"THE  morn  is  hanging  her  fire-fringed  veil, 

Made  of  the  mist,  o'er  the  walnut  boughs, 
And  Barbara,  with  her  cedar  pail, 
Comes  to  the  meadow  to  call  the  cows. 

"  The  little  people  that  live  in  the  air 
Are  not  for  my  human  hands  to  wrong," 


38  Barbara 

Says  Barbara,  and  her  loving  prayer 
Takes  them  up  as  it  goes  along. 

Gay  sings  the  miller,  and  Barbara's  mouth, 

Purses  with  echoes  it  will  not  repeat, 
And  the  rose  on  her  cheek  hath  a  May-day's 

growth 

In  the  line  with  the  ending,   "I  love  you, 
sweet." 

Yonder  the  mill  is,  small  and  white, 
Hung  like  a  vapor  among  the  rocks — 

Good  spirits  say  to  her  morn  and  night, 

"Barbara,  Barbara  !  stay  with  your  flocks." 

Stay  for  the  treasures  you  have  to  keep, 
Cherish  the  love  that  you  know  is  true  ; 

Though  stars  should  shine  in  the  tears  you  weep 
They  never  would  come  out  of  heaven  to  you. 

And  were  you  to  follow  the  violet  veins 
Over  the  hills — to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 

Barbara,  what  would  you  get  for  your  pains, 
More  than  your  true-love's  love  is  worth  ? 

So,  never  a  thought  about  braver  mills, 
Of  prouder  lovers  your  dreaming  cease  ; 

A  world  is  shut  in  among  these  hills — 
Stay  in  it,  Barbara,  stay,  for  your  peace  ! 

ALICE  CAKY. 
"Barbara  in  the  Meadow." 


^Beatrice  39 

BEATRICE. 

CO  gentle  seems  my  lady  and  so  pure 

When  she  greets  any  one,  that  scarce  the 

eye 

Such  modesty  and  brightness  can  endure, 
And  the  tongue,  trembling,  falters  in  reply. 

She    never    heeds,    when    people    praise    her 
worth, — 

Some  in  their  speech,  and  many  with  a  pen, 
But  meekly  moves,  as  if  sent  down  to  earth 

To  show  another  miracle  to  men. 

And  such  a  pleasure  from  her  presence  grows 
On  him  who  gazeth,  while  she  passeth  by, — 
A  sense  of  sweetness  that  no  mortal  knows 
Who  hath  not  felt  it, — that  the  soul's  repose 
Is  woke  to  worship,  and  a  spirit  flows 

Forth  from  her  face  that  seems  to  whisper, 

"Sigh!" 

DANTE  ALIGHIER.I. 

Translated  by  Thomas  William  Parsons. 


BEATRICE. 

1  LIE  unread,  alone.     None  heedeth  me. 

Day  after  day  the  cobwebs  are  unswept 
From  my  dim  covers.     I  have  lain  and  slept 
In  dust  and  darkness  for  a  century. 


40  JSelinDa 

An  old  forgotten  volume,  I.     Yet  see  ! 

Such  mighty  words  within  my  heart  are  kept 
That,  reading  once,  great  Ariosto  wept 

In  vain  despair  so  impotent  to  be. 

And  once,    with   pensive    eyes    and    drooping 

head, 
Musing,  Vittoria  Colon na  came, 

And  touched  my  leaves  with  dreamy  finger- 
tips, 
Lifted  me  up  half  absently,  and  read  ; 

Then  kissed  the  page  with  sudden  tender 

lips, 
And    sighed,    and    murmured    one    beloved 

name. 

CAROLINE  WILDER  FELLOWES. 

"  A  Volume  of  Dante." 


BELINDA. 

/^VN   her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she 

wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  Infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those  ; 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends  : 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 


JSella  41 

» 

¥et,  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to 

hide  ; 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  them  all. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 
From  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock." 


BELLA. 

\A7  HERE  the  Northern  pine-trees  sing, 
And  the  crystal  torrents  spring, 

In  a  warm  and  dainty  nest, 

Dwells  the  maid  that  I  love  best, — 
Born,  as  in  the  Alpine  rose, 
Blooming  in  the  midst  of  snows. 

Yet,  so  much  she  seems  to  me 

Like  a  dream  of  Italy, — 
Beautiful,  serene,  and  calm, 
Opulent  with  bloom  and  balm, — 

That  my  heart  leaps  up  to  greet  her, 

Vita  delta  mia  vita  ! 

Ah,  carina  !  in  thine  eyes 
What  miraculous  meaning  lies  ! 
Ah,  what  depths  of  rare  romance 
Charm  me  in  their  eloquent  glance, — 


42  JBella 

Full  of  -wonderful  witcheries, 
Shadowy,  mournful,  tender  eyes, — 

Yet  their  mellow  midnight  seems 

Softly  starred  with  silver  dreams  ; 
Fairest  eyes  on  earth  they  be, 
Marvellous  eyes  of  Italy  ; — 

Eyes  which  make  the  hours  go  fleeter, 

Vita  delta  mia  vita  ! 


Dreaming,  oft  again  I  dwell 
In  the  land  I  love  so  well, — 

Where  the  fruited  vineyards  lie 

Smiling  at  the  smiling  sky, — 
And  among  the  graceful  shapes 
Gathering  the  clustered  grapes, 

Eccolo!  she  parts  the  vines, 

And  a  golden  arrow  shines 
Tipped  with  sunlight  in  the  rare 
Purple  blackness  of  her  hair, — 

How  my  glad  heart  springs  to  meet  her, 

Vita  dell  a  mia  vita  ! 


Ah,  no  lovelier  maid,  I  ween, 

Roams  by  Tiber's  mellow  sheen, 
Or,  with  lingering  footsteps,  strays, 
Where  the  font  of  Trevi  plays, 

Or,  with  heart  devoid  of  ill, 

Muses  on  the  Pincian  Hill, 


JBelpboebe  43 

Listening  to  the  clear  farewells 

Of  the  silvery  sunset-bells, 
While  the  roses,  one  and  all, 
Nodding  from  the  ivied  wall 

Blush  to  find  her  fair  face  sweeter, — 
Vita  della  mia  vita  ! 

ELIZABETH  AKERS. 


"  BELPHCEBE. 

T  N  her  faire  eyes  two  living  lamps  did  flame, 
Kindled   above  at  th'  heavenly  Maker's 

light, 

And  darted  fyrie  beames  out  of  the  same, 
So  passing  persant,  and  so  wondrous  bright, 
That  quite  bereaved  the  rash  beholders  sight ; 
In  them  the  blinded  god  his  lustful  fyre 
To  kindle  oft  assayed,  but  had  no  might ; 
For,  with  dredd  majestie  and  awfull  yre, 
She  broke  his  wanton  darts,  and  quenched  base 

desyre. 

Her  y vorie  forhead,  full  of  bountie  brave, 
Like  a  broad  table  did  itselfe  dispred. 
For  Love  his  loftie  triumphes  to  engrave, 
And  write  the  battailes  of  his  great  godhed  ; 
All  good  and  honor  might  therein  be  red  ; 
For  there  their  dwelling  was.     And,  when  she 
spake, 


44  JSesste 

Sweet  wordes,  like   dropping  honey,   she   did 

shed  ; 

And  'twixt  the  perles  and  rubius  softly  brake 
A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  musicke  seemd  to 

make. 

Upon  her  eyelids  many  graces  sate, 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  even  browes, 
Working  belgardes  and  amorous  retrate  ; 
And  everie  one  her  with  a  grace  endowes, 
And  everie  one  with  meeknesse  to  her  bowes  ; 
So  glorious  mirrhour  of  celestiall  grace, 
And  soveraine  moniment  of  mortall  vowes, 
How  shall  frayle  pen  descrive  her  heavenly  face, 
For  feare,  through  want  of  skill,  her  beauty  to 

disgrace  ! 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 

From   "The  Faery   Queen." 


BESSIE. 

VE  ling'ring  birds  that  still  rejoice, 

And  sing  of  Edens  whence  ye  came  ! 
Ye  would  not  sing  a  note  for  shame, 
If  ye  had  heard  my  Bessie's  voice. 

Ye  stainless  clouds,  whose  purple  grace 
The  sunset  heightens  with  its  flush  ! 
I  wonder  not  that  ye  should  blush 

Since  ye  have  seen  my  Bessie's  face. 


JBettine  45 

Ye  stars  that  tremble  in  the  skies, 

Half  peering  through  the  lids  of  Night ! 
I  know  by  your  bedazzled  sight 

That  ye  have  looked  in  Bessie's  eyes. 

Ah,  modest  Moon  that  sails  the  blue  ! 
No  wonder  that  your  face  grows  pale 
And  hides  behind  its  snowy  vail, 

When  Bessie  turns  her  face  on  you. 

And  all  ye  skies  that  o'er  me  roll  ! 
Ye  could  not  show  so  pure  a  dome, 
If,  in  its  frequent  journeys  home, 

Ye  had  not  felt  my  Bessie's  soul. 

CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON. 


BETTINE. 

I  I ER  bodice  was  of  scarlet  and  her  petticoat 
of  grey, 

Her  wooden  shoes — 
Oh,  who  could  choose 
Shoes  daintier  than  they  ? 
The  crimson  of  the  sunset  was  flooding  all  the 
air  ; 

He  saw  its  trace 
Along  her  face 
And  mid  her  braided  hair. 


f 

46  JBirtba      . 

The  glad  brook  flung  its  music  and  the  robbins, 
fluttering  near, 

Were  twittering  low, 
And  loth  to  go 
Seemed  loitering  to  hear. 

He  told  her  that  he  loved  her ;  he  told  her  noth- 
ing more 

Than  woods  had  heard, 
In  whispered  word, 
For  centuries  before. 

But  the  crimson    'neath  her  lashes,  and  the 
bodice  fluttering  told 

How  new  each  word 
The  robins  heard, 
Unknown  to  her  of  old. 

Oh,  many  a  bodice  scarlet ;  oh,  many  a  skirt  of 
grey 

And  shoes  of  wood 
By  brooks  have  stood 
But  none  as  glad  as  they. 

GEORGE  K.LINGLE. 


BIRTHA. 

'TO  Astragon,  Heaven  for  succession  gave 

One  only  pledge,  and  Birtha  was  her  name, 
Whose  mother  slept  where  flowers  grew  on  her 

grave, 
And  she  succeeded  her  in  face  and  fame. 


JBirtba  .  47 

Her  beauty  princes  durst  not  hope  to  use, 
Unless,  like  poets,  for  their  morning  theme  ; 

And    her   mind's    beauty    they   would   rather 

choose, 
Which  did  the  light  in  beauty's  lauthorn  seem. 

She  ne'er  saw  courts,  yet  courts  could  have  un- 
done 
With   untaught  looks,    and    an    unpracticed 

heart  ; 

Her  nets,  the  most  prepar'd  could  never  shun, 
For  Nature  spread  them  in  the  scorn  of  art. 

She  never  had  in  busy  cities  been, 

Ne'er  warm'd  with  hopes,  nor  e'er  allay'd  with 

fears  ; 
Not  seeing  punishment,  could  guess  no  sin  ; 

And  sin  not  seeing,  ne'er  had  use  for  tears. 

But  here  her  father's  precepts  gave  her  skill, 
Which  with  incessant  business  fill'd  the  hours ; 

In  spring  she  gather'd  blossoms  for  the  still ; 
In  autumn,  berries  ;  and  in  summer,  flowers. 

And  as  kind  Nature,  with  calm  diligence, 
Her  own  free  virtue  silently  employs, 

Whilst  she  unheard,  does  ripening  growth  dis- 
pense, 
So  were  her  virtues,  busy  without  noise. 


48  ^Slancb 

Whilst  her  great  mistress,    Nature,    thus  she 
tends, 

The  busy  household  waits  no  less  on  her  ; 
By  secret  law,  each  to  her  beauty  bends, 

Though  all  her  lowly  mind  to  that  prefer. 

Gracious  and  free  she  breaks  upon  them  all 
With   morning  looks ;    and  they,   when  she 

does  rise, 
Devoutly  at  her  dawn  in  homage  fall, 

And  droop  like  flowers  when  evening  shuts 
her  eyes. 

SIR  WILLIAM  DA.VENANT. 
From  "  Gondibert." 


BLANCH. 

DLANCH  is  adorable  and  wise 

As — glad  winds  teaching  birds  to  sing  ; 
Steal  thou  and  gaze  deep  in  her  eyes  ; — 
Such  scholars  of  the  starry  skies  ! — 
Canst  marvel  at  the  thing  ? 

Nay,  Blanch,  like  some  red  bud  that  blows, 

Hoards  honey  in  her  sunny  heart : 
Study  her  smile  ;  wouldst  not  suppose 
She  from  some  warm,  white,  serious  rose 
Had  learned  the  happy  art  ? 


49 


Aye,  words  that  tarry  on  her  tongue 

Fall  more  than  musical  thereof  : 
And  why?     'T  is  this  :  her  soul  was  strung 
A  harp  at  birth  to  hope  that  sung, 

Now  hope  is  joined  with  love. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 


I F  stars  were  really  watching  eyes 

Of  angel  armies  in  the  skies, 
I  should  forget  all  watchers  there, 
And  only  for  your  glances  care. 

And  if  your  eyes  were  really  stars 
With  leagues  that  none  can  mete  for  bars 
To  keep  me  from  their  longed-for  day, 
I  could  not  feel  more  far  away  ! 

FRANCIS  W.  BOURDILLON. 


CAROLINE. 

f~^  EM  of  the  crimson-colored  even, 
y^     Companion  of  retiring  day, 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  heaven, 
Beloved  star,  dost  thou  delay  ? 


50  Caroline 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns, 
When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows  ; 

So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns, 
To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose  : 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love, 
So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 

Sure  some  enamoured  orb  above 

Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee. 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour, 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 

Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 
Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

Oh  !  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day, 

Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 

And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 
When  Caroline  herself  is  here  ! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort, 

Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown, 

And  wanton  flowers  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them  down. 

Shine  on  her  sweetly-scented  road, 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 

That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 


Cagtara  51 

Shine  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 
Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 

Where  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 
To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

Where  winnowed  by  the  gentle  air, 
Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow, 

And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair, 
Like  shadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline, 
In  converse  sweet,  to  wander  far, 

Oh  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  ruling  star  ! 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


CASTARA. 

I  IKE  the  violet  which,  alone, 

Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 
My  Castara  lives  unknown, 
To  no  ruder  eye  betray'd  ; 
For  she  's  to  herself  untrue 
Who  delights  i'  the  public  view. 

Such  is  her  beauty,  as  no  arts 

Have  enrich 'd  with  borrow 'd  grace  ; 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 
For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 


52  Castara 

Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood, — 
She  is  noblest,  being  good. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 
What  a  wanton  courtship  meant ; 

Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit  ; 
In  her  silence  eloquent. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes, 

But  'tween  men  no  difference  makes. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Her  grave  parents'  wise  commands  ; 
And  so  innocent,  that  ill 

She  nor  acts,  nor  understands  : 
Women's  feet  run  still  astray, 
If  once  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  court, 
Where  oft  virtue  splits  her  mast ; 

And  retiredness  thinks  the  port, 
Where  her  frame  may  anchor  cast. 

Virtue  safely  cannot  sit 

Where  vice  is  enthroned  for  wit. 

She  holds  that  day's  pleasure  best 
Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight ; 

Without  mask,  or  ball,  or  feast, 
Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night  : 

O'er  that  darkness  whence  is  thrust 

Prayer  and  sleep  oft  governs  lust. 


Catbarina  53 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb, 
While  wild  passions  captive  lie  ; 

And  each  article  of  time, 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  heaven  fly  ; 

All  her  vows  religious  be, 

And  her  love  she  vows  to  me. 

WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 


CATHARINA. 

C  HE  came— she  is  gone — we  have  met — 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again  ; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain. 
Catharina  has  fled  like  a  dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas  !) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  evening  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  I, 
Our  progress  was  often  delayed 

By  the  nightingale  warbling  nigh. 
We  paused  under  many  a  tree, 

And  much  she  was  charmed  by  a  tone, 
Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witnessed  her  own. 


54  Cecilia 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung, 

And  gave  them  a  grace  so  divine, 
As  only  her  musical  tongue 

Could  infuse  into  numbers  of  mine. 
The  longer  I  heard,  I  esteemed 

The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 
And  e'en  to  myself  never  seemed 

So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 

WILLIAM  COWPBR. 
From  "Catharina." 


CECILIA. 

D  Y  the  pure  spirit  in  each  gaze  revealed, 

Which  from  thine  eyelid's  heavy-fringed 

recess 

Like  those  pale  fires  the  meadow-grasses  shield, 
Subdues   the  sense,    when    star-beams    mild 

caress 

The  heavy  odors  from  the  jasmine  flowers 
Whose  influence  of  love  each  swooning   gale 
o'erpowers  ; 

By  the  fair  locks,  which,  like  in  form  and  dye 
To  flecks  of  golden  cloud  when  day  has  set, 

Clasp  the  calm  twilight  of  thy  brow,  and  by 
The  soft  sweet  smile  half  mingled  with  regret, 

Like  rippling  moonlight  on  an  endless  sea, 

Which  seems  to  lead  the  gaze  into  eternity  ; 


Cecils  55 

I  pray  thee  tell  what  secret  whisperings 
The  elves  that  dwell  in  the  moon's  quivering 

beams 

Have  spoken  to  thee  when  their  viewless  wings 
Have    brushed    thy    soothed    temples    into 

dreams, 

Or  whence  hath  sprung,  amid  earth's  wilderness, 
The  secret  fountain-head  of  so  much  loveliness. 

EVELYN  DOUGLAS. 


CECILY. 

T  F  at  the  sudden  sight  of  thee 

Joy  pulses  through  my  brain, 
Not  love  is  this  ;  but  I  foresee, — 
Fair  rose,  to  bloom  so  fain  ! — 
The  peerless  woman  thou  wilt  be, 
One  day,  my  sweet  girl  Cecily  ! 

I  gaze  beyond  thy  semblance  now, 
And  in  that  wide-expanding  brow, 
With  arched  eyes  of  soft  blue-gray — 
Like  the  tender  dawn  of  day, — 
Trusting  eyes,  that  dare  be  seen, 
Telling  pure  thoughts, — nothing  mean  ; 
And  in  thy  bearing,  firm  and  mild, 
I  see  the  woman  through  the  child. 


56  Celia 

Like  a  perfect  image,  wrought 
Only  in  the  sculptor's  thought ; 
Like  a  new  song,  under  breath, 

A  poet-lover  sings  ; 
Like  a  late- born  butterfly, 

Sunning  her  moist  wings  ; 
Like  a  young  moon,  lit  anew  ; 
Like  a  glad  dream,  coming  true  ; — 
All  delights  too  fresh  to  cloy  ! — 
Like  all  these  art  thou,  my  joy  ! 

CHARLES  NEWTON-ROBINSON 


CELIA. 

I~\RINK  lo  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  : 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 
Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 

As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 
It  could  not  withered  be. 


Celinda  57 

But  thou  thereon  did'st  only  breathe, 

And  send'st  it  back  to  me  : 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

BEN  JONSON. 

CELINDA. 

"\A7AL,KING  thus  towards  a  pleasant  grove, 

Which  did,  it  seemed,  in  new  delight 
The  pleasures  of  the  time  unite 
To  give  a  triumph  to  their  love, — 
They  stayed  at  last,  and  on  the  grass 
Reposed  so  as  o'er  his  breast 
She  bowed  her  gracious  head  to  rest, 
Such  a  weight  as  no  burden  was. 
Long  their  fixed  eyes  to  heaven  bent, 
Unchanged  they  did  never  move, 
As  if  so  great  and  pure  a  love 
No  glass  but  it  could  represent. 
"These  eyes  again  thine  eyes  shall  see, 
Thy  hands  again  these  hands  infold, 
And  all  chaste  pleasures  can  be  told 
Shall  with  us  everlasting  be. 
Let  then  no  doubt,  Celinda,  touch, 
Much  less  your  fairest  mind  invade  ; 
Were  not  our  souls  immortal  made, 
Our  equal  loves  can  make  them  such." 

EDWARD  HERBERT,  EARL  OF  CHERBURY. 


58  Cbarlotte 

CHARLOTTE. 

DEHOLD  another  year  succeed  ! 

But,  Charlotte,  thou  hast  nought  to  dread, 
Since  time  will  ever  beauty  spare  : 
Time  knows  what 's  perfect,  and  well  knows, 
'T  would  take  him  ages  to  compose 
Another  damsel  half  so  fair. 

JOHN  WOLCOT. 
"To  Charlotte,  on  New- Year's  Day." 


CHLOE. 

C INCE  Chloe  is  so  monstrous  fair, 

With  such  an  eye  and  such  an  air, 
What  wonder  that  the  world  complains 
When  she  each  am'rous  suit  disdains? 

Close  to  her  mother's  side  she  clings, 
And  mocks  the  death  her  folly  brings 
To  gentle  swains  that  feel  the  smarts 
Her  eyes  inflict  upon  their  hearts. 

Whilst  thus  the  years  of  youth  go  by, 
Shall  Colin  languish,  Strephon  die  ? 
Nay,  cruel  nymph  !  come  choose  a  mate, 
And  choose  him  ere  it  be  too  late  ! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 
From  "Echoes  from  Sabine  Farm." 


Cbrtstfe  59 

CHRISTIE. 

1  THINK  of  her  when  spirit-bowed  ; 

A  glory  fills  the  place  : 
Like  sudden  light  on  swords,  the  proud 

Smile  flashes  in  my  face  : 
And  others  see,  in  passing  by, 

But  cannot  understand 
The  vision  shining  in  mine  eye, 

My  strength  of  heart  and  hand. 

That  grave  content  and  touching  grace 

Bring  tears  into  mine  eyes  ; 
She  makes  my  heart  a  holy  place 

Where  hymns  and  incense  rise  ! 
Such  calm  her  gentle  spirit  brings 

As — smiling  overhead — 
White  statued  saints  with  peaceful  wings 

Shadow  the  sleeping  dead. 

Our  Christie  is  no  rosy  Grace 

With  beauty  all  may  see, 
But  I  have  never  felt  a  face 

Grow  half  so  dear  to  me. 
No  curling  hair  about  her  brows, 

Like  many  merry  girls' ; 
Well,  straighter  to  my  heart  it  goes 

And  round  it  curls  and  curls. 


60  Clara 

Meek  as  the  wood-anemone  glints 

To  see  if  skies  are  blue, 
Is  my  pale  flower  with  her  tints 

Of  heaven  shining  thro'  ! 
She  will  be  poor  and  never  fret, 

Sleep  sound  and  lowly  lie  ; 
Will  live  her  quiet  life,  and  let 

The  great  world-storm  go  by. 

GERALD  MASSEY. 
From  "  Christie's  Portrait." 


CLARA. 

•THE  rose  that  lifts  its  head  to  kiss 

The  sunbeam  glinting  there, 
As  thy  sweet  face  and  ruby  lips 
Is  not  so  fair. 

As  thou  art  far  above  the  rose, 

Below  the  sunbeam  I, 
And  thou  canst  give  the  greatest  gift 

Beneath  the  sky. 

Oh,  canst  thou  overlook  the  line 
That  separates  from  me 

The  Venus  of  our  Northern  clime  ? — 
For  I  love  thee  ! 

JAMES  MEADE  ADAMS. 


Clare  61 

CLARE. 

I  OVELY,  and  gentle,  and  distress'd— 
These  charms  might  tame  the  fiercest 

breast ; 

Harpers  have  sung,  and  poets  told, 
That  he,  in  fury  uncontroll'd, 
The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good, 
Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
From  "  Marmion." 


CLARINDA. 

f~\H  !  wot  ye  how  fair  Mistress  Prue 

Doth  purse  her  lips  and  frown, 
To  see  one  fleet  along  the  street 

All  in  a  trim  new  gown  ? 
Sing  louder,  robin,  pipe,  O  wren, 

And,  thrush,  your  quavers  dare  ; 
Let  every  throat  be  vocal  when 

Clarinda  "takes  the  air." 

She  hath  a  smile  that  would  beguile 
A  monk  in  robe  and  cowl, 

And  yet  her  eyes  can  look  as  wise 
As  grave  Minerva's  owl. 


62  Clarisse 

Lo,  when  she  speaks,  across  her  cheeks 

The  chasing  dimples  fare, 
Oh  !  young  again  I  would  be  when 

Clarinda  "takes  the  air." 

Nor  left  nor  right  her  glances  light ; 

Demurely  on  she  goes  ; 
In  all  the  wide,  wide  country-side 

There  's  not  so  sweet  a  rose. 
And  ye,  my  gallant  gentlemen — 

Tut !  tut !  ye  should  not  stare  ; 
And  yet  how  may  ye  help  it  when 

Clarinda  "takes  the  air." 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 
"  Clarinda  Takes  the  Air." 


CLARISSE. 

I/"  ISS  you  ?    Wherefore  should  I,  sweet  ? 

Casual  kissing  I  condemn  ; 
Other  lips  your  lips  will  meet 

When  my  kisses  die  on  them. 
Should  I  grieve  that  this  should  be  ? 
Nay,  if  you  will  kiss— kiss  me  ! 

Love  you  ?    That  were  vainer  still  ! 

If  you  win  my  love  to-day, 
When  the  morrow  comes  you  will 

Lightly  laugh  that  love  away. 
Should  I  grieve  that  this  should  be  ? 
Nay,  if  you  must  love— love  me  ! 


Cloe  63 

Wherefore  play  these  fickle  parts  ? 

Life  and  love  will  soon  be  done  ; 
Think  you  God  made  human  hearts 

Just  for  you  to  tread  upon  ? 
Will  you  break  them,  nor  repine  ? 
If  you  will,  Clarisse,  break  mine  ! 

FRANK  I,.  STANTON. 


CLOE. 

"THE  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 

Conveys  it  in  a  borrowed  name  : 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure, 
But  Cloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre, 

Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay  ; 
When  Cloe  noted  her  desire, 

That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tuue,  my  voice  I  raise, 
But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs  ; 

And  whilst  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 
I  fix  my  soul  on  Cloe's  eyes. 

Fair  Cloe  blushed  ;  Euphelia  frowned  ; 

I  sung  and  gazed  ;  I  played  and  trembled 
And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 

Remarked,  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. 
'An  Ode." 


&4  Constance 

CONSTANCE. 

JV/I EANWHILE  the  child  grew 

Into  girlhood  ;  and,  like  a  sunbeam,  slid- 
ing through 
Her    green   quiet   years,    changed    by    gentle 

degrees 

To  the  loveliest  vision  of  youth  a  youth  sees 
In  his  loveliest  fancies  ;  as  pure  as  a  pearl, 
And  as  perfect ;  a  noble  and  innocent  girl, 
With  eighteen  sweet  summers  dissolved  in  the 

light 
Of  her  lovely  and  lovable  eyes,  soft  and  bright ! 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 
From  "Lucile." 


CONSTANCE. 

\X7ILJyED  God  to  make 
Thee,  love,  a  rose, 
Or  with  thy  soul 

Inflame  a  star  ; 
How  should  I  quake 

When  winds  arose, 
When  westering  stole 

The  planet  far ! 


Cora  65 


But  no  wild  blast 

Disturbs  thy  heart, 
Thy  spirit's  flame 

Is  bright  alway, 
Troth  ever  fast ; 

To-day  thou  art 
The  very  same 

As  yesterday. 

Perennial  prove 

Thy  blossom  sweet, 
Thy  tender  glow 

Undimmed,  while  I 
May  live  and  love  : — 

Then  fade  and  fleet, 
And  tell  me  so 

'T  is  time  to  die. 


RICHARD  GARNETT. 


CORA. 

"THEY  will  never  come  back,  the  bright,  beau- 
tiful days, 

The  gladdening  days  of  the  glorious  spring, 
With  its  blossoming  crocus  and  jessamine  sprays 
And  its  verdure  that  comes  o'er  the  land  like 
a  king : 


66  Cora 

They  are  fleeing  forever;  thefreshness  and  bloom 
Of  these  sun-lighted  days  of  the  years  of  thy 

life, 

Like  dreams  dreamt  on  pillows  of  precious  per- 
fume 

They  fade  ere  thou  knowest  with  what  glory 
they  're  rife. 

But  say  you  the  summer  is  coming  anon, 
Its  gardens  all  flush  with   ripe   beauty  and 

splendor, 
With  its  harmonies  grander  than  those  that  are 

gone, 
With  its  sunshine  more  brilliant,  its  shadows 

more  tender  ? 
Dost  thou   say  that  its    voices    are  richer  in 

meaning, 
The  fruit  that  is  mellow  more  luscious  than 

bloom, 
The  harvest   that 's  golden   and  ripe  for  the 

gleaning 
Worth  all  of  the  spring's  evanescent  perfume  ? 

Ah  !   love — 't  is  the  seed  sown  in  spring-time 

that  grows 
To  spangle  with  blossoms  the  summer's  green 

glade  ; 
'T  is  the  sapling    of    spring  whose  maturity 

throws 

Over  summer's  hot  pulses  the  cool  cloak  of 
shade  ; 


Cora  67 

And  the  harvest  that 's  golden,  the  fruit  that  is 

red, 
And  the  gushes  of  song  on  the  summer  day's 

track, 
Are  the  precious  results  of  a  spring  that  has 

sped, 

Which   will   never  come  back, — which  will 
never  come  back. 

Say'st  thou  autumn  will  come  when  the  summer 

is  gone, 
With  the  purple  and  gold  that  embroider  its 

glory, 

And  the  song  of  the  vintager  greeting  the  dawn, 
While  with  blood  of  the  grape  the  winepress 

is  gory  ? 
Dost  thou  say  that  the  full-handed  autumn  can 

tender 
Such  riches  as  spring-time  nor  summer  e'er 

knew, 
While  the  gorgeous  skies   and   the  forests  of 

splendor 
Are  rarer  than  roses  and  richer  than  dew  ? 

Remember  that  spring  and  its  sunny  caress, 
Its    welcoming    warmth    and    its    fostering 

mould, 
Is  the  source  of  all  this  that  thy  autumn  can 

bless, 
Its  clusters  of  purple,  its  harvests  of  gold  ! 


68  Coca 

For  the  stalk  yielding    grain   and    the  grape 

yielding  wine, 
And   the   fruit-laden    orchards    old    autumn 

must  lack , 
Were  it  not  for  the  tendrils  of  spring's  early 

vine 

And  the  seed  of  a  season  that  never  comes 
back. 

Then  gather  now,  darling,  the  delicate  bloom 
Of  the  crocus,  and  jasmine,  and  clambering 

rose  ; 
Extract  from  their  petals  the  precious  perfume, 

Thy  life  to  embalm  as  it  draws  to  a  close  ; 
Scatter  seeds  while  the  days  of  thy  years  are  but 

few, 

Broadcast  upon  intellect's  nourishing  mould, 
That  the  sunshine  of  youth  and  its  fostering 

dew 
May  yield  thee  a  harvest  of  beauty  untold. 

For  the  spring-time  of  youth  quickly  fadeth 

away 
And    the    swift    summer   perish    on  ( time's 

sterile  shore  ; 

All  the  autumn's  rich  glory  fast  falls  to  decay 
And  winter's  chill  hillsides  are  ours— nothing 
more. 


Cordelia  69 

But  if  it.  the  seed-time  thou  'st  planted  aright, 
For  each  season  of  life  shall  some  blessing 

arise, 
Till  the  Spring-time  Eternal  shall  bloom  on  thy 

sight, 

And  thy  wandering  feet  roam  the  star-sprin- 
kled skies. 

MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND. 
"  Lines  to  Cora." 


W: 


CORDELIA. 

rHEN  winsome  fair  Cordelia 
Down  to  her  garden  goes, 
The  West  Wind  wafts  a  courtesy 

From  every  climbing  rose  ; 
He  doffs  the  hollyhocks'  gay  hats, 
And  bows  the  pinks'  stiff  heads, 
Or,  with  glowing  poppy  petals, 
A  dainty  pathway  spreads — 

0  West  Wind,  O  West  Wind  !  Who  art  so  bold 

and  free, 

Who  woos  my  love  Cordelia  (she  takes  no  heed 
of  me) ; 

1  would  I  were  the  North  Wind,  that  I  might 

buffet  thee ! 


70  CorDelia 

She  plays  upon  the  spinet,  when 

The  candles  are  alight  ; 
And  rising,  gayly  crosses  there 

The  oaken  hallway  bright ; 
Against  the  broidered  tapestry 

Dances  her  silhouette, 
As,  with  an  unseen  cavalier, 

She  treads  the  minuet. 
Cordelia,  sweet  Cordelia,  I  prythee,  cease  thy 

jest  ; 
I  love  thy  very  shadow,  dear,  and  surely,  it  were 

best, 

To  flout  me  not,  but  wed  me  now,  and  give  my 
spirit  rest. 

The  gleaming  silver  candlesticks 

Reflect  her  mocking  smile, 
And  silken  downcast  lashes,  too  ; 

Then  ponders  she,  awhile, 
"  But,  't  is  thou  who  art  my  shadow, 

Who  always  followest  me  ; 
Narcissus-like,  thou  lovest  thyself!  " 

(She  laughs  right  merrily) — 
"  Alas,"  I  cry,  "Cordelia,  and  dost  thou  bid  me 

go?" 
Makes  answer  sweet    Cordelia,    "  Thy   wit  is 

somewhat  slow, 

But    ne'erless,   thou    mayest  yet,    of   hope,   a 
shadow  know." 

NANCY  MANN  WADDLE. 
"Her  Shadow." 


Corinna  71 

CORINNA. 

/^*  ET  up,  get  up  for  shame  !     The  blooming 

^^         morn 

Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air  : 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew-bespangled  herb  and  tree  ! 

Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd  toward  the 
east, 

Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  drest ; 
Nay  !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ; 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns  :  't  is  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 

When  as  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 

Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and 

green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  : 
Fear  not  ;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  Orient  pearls  unwept. 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night, 


72  Corinna 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 

Till  you  come  forth  !    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 
praying : 

Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come  ;  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park, 
Made  green  and  trimm'd  with  trees !    see 

how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch  !  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see  't  ? 
Come,  we  '11  abroad,  and  let 's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May  : 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let 's  go  a-Maying. 

There  's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some    have    despatch'd    their   cakes    and 
cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 


Corinna  73 

And  some  have  wept  and  woo'd,  and  plighted 
troth, 

And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth  : 
Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament : 

Many  a  jest  told  of  the  key's  betraying 

This  night,  and  locks  pick'd  :  yet  we  're  not  a- 
Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time  ! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun. 
And,  as  a  vapor  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again  ; 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

I/ies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then,  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  de- 
caying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let 's  go  a-Maying. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 
"Corinna's  Maying." 


74  CreseiDe 

CRESEIDE. 

A  MONO  these  other  folke  was  Creseida, 

In  widovves  habite  black  ;  but  natheless 
Right  as  our  first  letter  is  uow  a, 
In  beautie  first  so  stood  she  matchless, 
Her  goodly  looking  gladded  all  the  prees, 
Was  never  scene  thing  to  be  praised  so  dere, 
Nor  under  cloude  blacke  so  brighte  starre. 

Creseide  meane  was  of  her  stature, 
Thereto  of  shape,  of  face  and  eke  of  chere, 
There  might  ben  no  fairer  creature, 
And  ofte  time  this  was  her  manere, 
Son  gone  y tressed  with  her  haires  clere 
Downe  by  her  colere  at  her  back  behind, 
Which  with  a  thred  of  gold  she  woulde  bind. 

And  save  her  browes  joyneden  yfere, 

There  nas  no  lacke,  in  aught  I  can  espien  ; 

But  for  to  speken  of  her  eyen  clere, 

So,  truly  they  written  that  her  seien, 

That  Paradis  stood  formed  in  her  eien, 

And  with  her  riche  beauty  evermore 

Strove  love  in  her,  aie  which  of  hem  was  more. 

She  sobre  was,  eke  simple,  and  wise  withail, 
The  best  ynorished  eke  that  might  bee, 
And  goodly  of  her  speche  in  generall, 


Cgntbia  75 

Charitable,  estately,  lusty  and  free, 
Ne  nevermore  ne  lacked  her  pitee, 
Tender  hearted  sliding  of  corage, 
But  truly  I  cannot  tell  her  age. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
From  "Troilus  and  Creseide." 


CYNTHIA. 

r\O  not  conceal  thy  radiant  eyes, 

The  star-light  of  serenest  skies ; 
Lest,  wanting  of  their  heavenly  light, 
They  turn  to  chaos'  endless  night ! 

Do  not  conceal  those  tresses  fair, 
The  silken  snares  of  thy  curled  hair ; 
Lest,  finding  neither  gold  nor  ore, 
The  curious  silk-worm  work  no  more  ! 

Do  not  conceal  those  breasts  of  thine, 
More  snow-white  than  the  Apennine  ; 
Lest,  if  there  be  like  cold  and  frost, 
The  lily  be  for  ever  lost ! 

Do  not  conceal  that  fragrant  scent, 
Thy  breath,  which  to  all  flowers  hath  lent 
Perfumes  ;  lest,  it  being  supprest, 
No  spices  grow  in  all  the  East ! 


76  Daisg 

Do  not  conceal  thy  heavenly  voice, 
Which  makes  the  hearts  of  Gods  rejoice  ; 
Lest,  music  hearing  no  such  thing, 
The  nightingale  forget  to  sing  ! 

Do  not  conceal,  nor  yet  eclipse, 
Thy  pearly  teeth  with  coral  lips  ; 
I^est,  that  the  seas  cease  to  bring  forth 
Gems  which  from  thee  have  all  their  worth ! 

Do  not  conceal  a  beauty,  grace 
That 's  either  in  thy  mind  or  face  ; 
Lest  Virtue  overcome  by  Vice 
Make  men  believe  no  Paradise. 

SIR  FRANCIS  KYNASTON. 
"To  Cynthia,  on  Concealment  of  her  Beauty." 


AA/ 


DAISY. 

I  might  keep  thee  ever  from  the 
storm 

And  threat  of  storm,  from  peril  of  the  brink 
And  fall  therefrom  ;   from  even  the  subtlest 

link 

Of  joy  with  joylessness  ;  from  all  earth's  swarm 
Of  mockeries  pitiless  and  multiform  ; 

Make  from  thy  pathway  every  danger  shrink, 


Daisg  77 

Give  thy  sweet  lips  but  happy  cups  to  drink, 
My  own  hopes  pledge  to  keep  thine  warm  and 

bright. 
Alas  !  I  may  not  share  thy  peace  nor  strife  ; 

To  me  't  is  not  vouchsafed  to  give  nor  guard, 
But  in  my  soul  great  love  for  thee  is  rife, 

And  so  my  night  is  beautifully  starred, 
For  it  is  written  on  the  heights  of  life, 

Love  is  its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND. 


DAISY. 

"\A7HERE  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 
V  V      Six  feet  out  of  the  turf, 
And  the  harebell  shakes  on  the  windy  hill, 
On  the  breath  of  the  distant  surf ! 

The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 
And  the  southward  dreams  the  sea, 

And,  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand, 
Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gores  the  raspberry 

Red  for  the  gatherer  springs, 
Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 

Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 


78  Bafsg 

She  listened  with  big-lipped  surprise, 
Breast-deep  'mid  flower  and  spine  ; 

Her  skin  was  like  a  grape,  whose  veins 
Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake, 

Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way  ; 
But  there  's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 

Thronged  in  whose  throat  that  day  ! 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 

On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray, 
But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 

Was  the  Daisy-flower  that  day  ! 

Her  beauty  smoothed  earth's  furrowed  face ! 

She  gave  me  tokens  three, 
A  look,  a  word  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word, — strings  of  sand  ! 
And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 

Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 

For  standing  artless  as  the  air 

And  candid  as  the  skies, 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 


79 


The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  eud  ; 

Their  scent  survives  their  close, 
But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 

To  him  that  loved  the  rose  ! 

She  looked  a  little  wistfully, 
Then  went  her  sunshine  way  ; 

The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it, 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 

She  went  her  unremembering  way, 

She  went  and  left  in  me 
The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone 

And  partings  yet  to  be. 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 

Was  sad  that  she  was  glad 
At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 

The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 

Look  up  with  soft  replies, 
And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand 

And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins,  and  nothing  ends, 
That  is  not  paid  with  moan  ; 

For  we  are  born  in  others'  pain 
And  perish  in  our  own. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


8o  2>apbne 

DAPHNE. 

A   GENTLE  look  of  sweet  surprise 

In  Daphne's  eyes. 
Golden  fetters  which  do  not  spare 

In  Daphne's  hair. 
Of  the  rosy  blush,  I  dare  not  speak, 

On  Daphne's  cheek. 
A  winning  smile,  like  the  warm,  warm  South, 

Around  her  mouth. 
A  little  dimple,  my  heart  to  win, 

In  Daphne's  chin. 
A  dainty  gesture  of  command, 

In  Daphne's  hand. 
These  are  the  charms  which  to  my  love  belong, 

And  hence  my  song. 

MAY  PORTER. 


DEIvIA. 

LJ  ER  sparkling  eyes  are  like  two  drops  of  dew 
That  twinkle  under  summer  skies  of  blue, 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  flushed  by  dawn  of  day, 
Her  sweet  mouth  sweeter  than  the  month  of 

May  ; 

Her  little  blue-veined  feet,  so  soft,  so  swift, 
That  from  the  earth  her  figure  seem  to  lift, 


Delia  81 

So  white,  so  airy,  free  from  spot  and  stain, 
Are  like  the  doves  that  wafted  Cupid's  wain  ; 
Her  bosom  's  like  the  cloud  by  morning  spun,. 
Decked  in  the  roses  of  the  rising  sun, 
And  on  her  swelling,  gently-heaving  breast 
White-winge'd  Love  hath  built  his  happy  nest. 

No  other  maiden  lives  in  hut  or  hall, 
Nor  ever  breathed  since  Eve's  and  Adam's  fall, 
To  vie  with  her  in  gentleness  and  grace  ; 
And  she  outshines  them  with  her  lovely  face, 
As    gladsome    summer,    warm    with    fragrant 

flowers, 

Outshines  cold  autumn's  gaudy,  lifeless  bowers, 
As  radiant  stars  in  jewelled  skies  outshine 
The  stony  gems  set  in  a  chilly  mine. 

WALTER  MALONE. 


DELIA. 

I  INTO  the  boundless  ocean  of  thy  beauty 

Runs  this  poor  river,  charged  with  streams 

of  zeal, 

Returning  thee  the  tribute  of  my  duty, 
Which  here  my  love,  my  youth,  my  plaints 
reveal. 


82  Diana 

Here  I  unclasp  the  book  of  my  charged  soul, 
Where  I  have  cast  the  accounts  of  all  my 

care  ; 

Here  have  I  summed  my  sighs,  here  I  enroll 
How  they  were  spent  for  thee  :   look  what 

they  are  ! 
Look  on  the  dear  expenses  of  my  youth, 

And  see  how  just  I  reckon  with  thine  eyes  ! 
Examine  well  thy  beauty  with  my  truth, 

And  cross  my  cares  ere  greater  sums  arise  ! 
Read  it,  sweet  Maid  !    though  it  be  done  but 

slightly  : 

Who    can    show    all    his  love    doth   love  but 
lightly. 

SAMUEL  DANIEL. 


DIANA. 

T  LOVE  thee  all  the  more  that  thou  dost  prove 

So  all  unmoved  by  all  proffered  love  ; 
For  not  thy  fault  but  ours  it  is,  when  we, 
Poor  sons  of  Adam,  bend  the  suppliant  knee, 
That  thou  hast  ne'er  an  answer  to  our  sigh. 
E'en  in  the  virginal  calmness  of  thine  eye 
(As  some  great  lake  which  in  its  quietest  sleep 
Mirrors  all  heaven  within  its  infinite  deep) 
I  read  the  secret  passion  of  great  love, 


Dianeme  83 

That  might  have  been  did  men  more  worthy 

prove. 

And  I  do  love  thy  high-souled  purity, 
And  I  am  well  content  that  thou  shouldst  be 
Too  pure,  too  proud,  to  stoop  to  such  as  we. 
WILSON  K.  WELSH. 


DIANEME. 

C  WEET,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes, 

Which,  star-like,  sparkle  in  their  skies 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  cau  see 
All  hearts  your  captives,— yours  yet  free. 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair 
Which  wantons  with  the  love-sick  air  : 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty  's  gone. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


DOLLIE. 

C  HE  sports  a  witching  gown 
With  a  ruffle  up  and  down 

On  the  skirt. 
She  is  gentle,  she  is  shy  ; 
But  there  's  mischief  in  her  eye, 

She  's  a  flirt  ! 


84  Dollie 

She  displays  a  tiny  glove, 
And  a  dainty  little  love 

Of  a  shoe ; 

And  she  wears  her  hat  a-tilt 
Over  bangs  that  never  wilt 

In  the  dew. 

'T  is  rumoied  chocolate  creams 
Are  the  fabric  of  her  dreams — 

But  enough  ! 
I  know  beyond  a  doubt 
That  she  carries  them  about 

In  her  muff. 

With  her  dimples  and  her  curls 
She  exasperates  the  girls 

Past  belief: 

They  hint  that  she  's  a  cat, 
And  delightful  things  like  that 

In  their  grief. 

It  is  shocking,  I  declare  ! 
But  what  does  Dollie  care 

When  the  beaux 
Come  flocking  to  her  feet 
Like  the  bees  around  a  sweet 

Little  rose  ? 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 


Dora  85 

DORA. 

I  CAN  like  a  hundred  women, 

I  can  love  a  score, 
Only  one  with  heart's  devotion 

Worship  and  adore. 
Mary,  Jessie,  Lucy,  Nancy, 

With  a  fine  control 
Hold  my  eye  or  stir  my  fancy  ; 

Dora  fills  my  soul. 

Dainty  doves  are  doves  of  Venus, 

(Plumy,  soft  delight), 
But  my  dove  (O  wonder  !),  Dora, 

Hath  an  eagle's  might. 
Doves  are  pretty,  doves  are  stupid, 

But  who  Dora  loves 
Finds  Minerva  masqued  in  Cupid, 

Strength  in  downy  doves. 

Like  the  sun's  face  brightly  dancing 

On  the  shimmering  sea, 
But,  like  Ocean,  deep  is  Dora, 

Strong,  and  fair,  and  free. 
Chirping  like  a  gay  Cicala 

In  a  sunny  bower, 
But  a  Muse  in  that  Cicala 

Sings  with  thoughtful  power. 


86  Dora 

Like  a  beck  that  bickers  blithely 

Down  the  daisied  lea, 
So  her  bright  soul  bursts  and  blossoms 

In  spontaneous  glee. 
Full  of  gamesome  show  is  Dora  ; 

But  behind  the  scene 
Sits  the  lofty  will  of  Dora 

Throned  like  a  queen. 

Lovely  marvel !  oak  and  lily 

From  one  root  came  forth, 
Twined  in  leafy  grace  together 

At  my  Dora's  birth. 
Mellow  Eve,  and  bright  Aurora, 

Sober  Night,  and  Noon, 
Dwell,  divinely  blent,  in  Dora, 

To  a  jarless  tune. 

I  can  like  a  hundred  women, 

I  can  love  a  score, 
Only  one  with  heart's  devotion 

Worship  and  adore. 
Mary,  Jessie,  Lucy,  Nancy, 

With  a  fine  control 
Hold  my  eye  or  stir  my  fancy  ; 

Dora  fills  my  soul. 

JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE. 


BorinJm  87 

DORINDA. 

A  CCEPT,  my  love,  as  true  a  heart 

As  ever  lover  gave  : 
'T  is  free,  it  vows,  from  any  art, 
And  proud  to  be  your  slave. 

Then  take  it  kindly,  as  't  was  meant, 

And  let  the  giver  live, 
Who,  with  it,  would  the  world  have  sent, 

Had  it  been  his  to  give. 

And,  that  Dorinda  may  not  fear 

I  e'er  will  prove  untrue, 
My  vow  shall,  ending  with  the  year, 

With  it  begin  anew. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


DORIS. 

T  SAT  with  Doris,  the  shepherd  maiden  : 

Her  crook  was  laden  with  wreathed  flowers  ; 
I  sat  and  wooed  her  through  sunlight  wheeling, 
And  shadows  stealing,  for  hours  and  hours. 

And  she,  my  Doris,  whose  lap  encloses 
Wild  summer  roses  of  rare  perfume, 

The  while  I  sued  her,  kept  hushed  and  heark- 
ened 
Till  shades  had  darkened  from  gloss  to  gloom. 


88  Boris 

She  touched  my  shoulder  with  fearful  finger  : 
She  said,  "  We  linger  ;  we  must  not  stay  ; 

My  flock  's  in  danger,  my  sheep  will  wander  : 
Behold  them  yonder — how  far  they  stray  !  " 

I  answered  bolder,  "  Nay,  let  me  hear  you, 
And  still  be  near  you,  and  still  adore  ; 

No  wolf  nor  stranger  will  touch  one  yearling  ; 
Ah  !  stay,  my  darling,  a  moment  more." 

She  whispered,  sighing  :  "  There  will  be  sorrow 
Beyond  to-morrow,  if  I  lose  to-day  ; 

My  fold  unguarded,  my  flock  unfolded, 
I  shall  be  scolded,  and  sent  away." 

Said  I,  denying  :  "  If  they  do  miss  you, 
They  ought  to  kiss  you  when  you  get  home  ; 

And  well  rewarded  by  friends  and  neighbor 
Should  be  the  labor  from  which  you  come." 

"  They  might  remember,"  she  answered  meekly, 
"  That  lambs  are  weakly  and  sheep  are  wild  ; 

But  if  they  love  me  't  is  none  so  fervent ; 
I  am  a  servant,  and  not  a  child." 

Then  each  hot  ember  glowed  within  me, 
And  love  did  win  me  to  swift  reply  : 

"  Ah  !  do  but  prove  me,  and  none  shall  bind 

you 
Nor  fray  nor  find  you,  until  I  die." 


2>orotb£  89 

She  blushed  and  started,  and  stood  awaiting, 

As  if  debating  in  dreams  divine  ; 
But  I  did  brave  them — I  told  her  plainly 

She  doubted  vainly  ;  she  must  be  mine. 

So  we,  twin-hearted,  from  all  the  valley 
Did  rouse  and  rally  the  nibbling  ewes  ; 

And  homeward  drave  them,  we  two  together, 
Through    blooming    heather   and  gleaming 

dews. 

• 

That  simple  duty  fresh  grace  did  lend  her — 

My  Doris  tender,  my  Doris  true  : 
That  I,  her  warder,  did  always  bless  her, 

And  often  press  her  to  take  her  due. 

And  now  in  beauty  she  fills  my  dwelling 
With  love  excelling  and  undefiled ; 

And  love  doth  guard  her,  both  fast  and  fervent, 
No  more  a  servant,  nor  yet  a  child. 

ARTHUR  J.  MUNBY. 


DOROTHY. 

pvOROTHY  is  debonair ; 

Little  count  hath  she 

All  her  gold  is  in  her  hair. 


90  Dutcinea 

And  the  freshness  of  the  Spring 
Round  this  old  world  seems  to  cling 
When  you  hear  her  laugh  or  sing. 

On  her  sunny  way  she  goes  ; 
Much  she  wonders — little  knows 
Love  's  as  yet  a  folded  rose. 

All  her  smiles  in  dimples  die  ; 
Glad  is  she,  nor  knows  she  why 
Just  to  live  is  ecstasy '% 

Lightly  lie  the  chains,  methinks, 
That  have  daisies  for  their  links  ; 
Youth 's  the  fount  where  Pleasure  drinks. 

Dorothy  is  debonair  ; 

Little  count  hath  she  or  care, 

Sunshine  in  her  heart  and  hair. 

M.  HEDDERWICK  BROWNB. 


DULCINEA. 

O IMPLE  am  I,  I  care  no  whit 

For  pelf  or  place, 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  sit 

And  watch  Dulcinea's  face  ; 
To  mark  the  lights  and  shadows  flit 
Across  the  silver  moon  of  it. 


JEarine  91 

I  have  no  other  merchandise, 

No  stocks  or  shares, 
No  other  gold  but  just  what  lies 

In  those  deep  eyes  of  hers  ; 
And,  sure,  if  all  the  world  were  wise, 
It  too  would  bank  within  her  eyes. 

I  buy  up  all  her  smiles  all  day, 

With  all  my  love, 
And  sell  them  back,  cost  price,  or,  say, 

A  kiss  or  two  above  ; 
It  is  a  speculation  fine, 
The  profit  must  be  always  mine. 

The  world  has  many  things,  't  is  true, 

To  fill  its  time, 
Far  more  important  things  to  do 

Than  making  love  and  rhyme  ; 
Yet,  if  it  asked  me  to  advise, 
I  'd  say — buy  up  Dulcinea's  eyes  ! 

RICHARD  I,E  GALLIENNE. 
'  Love's  Exchange." 


EARINE. 


C  AINT  VALENTINE  kindles  the  crocus, 

Saint  Valentine  wakens  the  birds  ; 
I  would  that  his  power  could  evoke  us 
In  tender  and  musical  words  ! 


92 


I  mean,  us  unconfident  lovers, 

Whose  doubtful  or  stammering  tongue 

No  help  save  in  rhyming  discovers  ; 
Since  what  can't  be  said  may  be  sung. 

So,  Fairest  and  Sweetest,  your  pardon 

(If  no  better  welcome)  I  pray  ! 
There  's  spring-time  in  grove  and  in  garden  ; 

Perchance  it  may  breathe  in  my  lay. 

I  think  and  I  dream  (did  you  know  it?) 
Of  somebody's  eyes,  her  soft  hair, 

The  neck  bending  whitely  below  it, 
The  dress  that  she  chances  to  wear. 

Each  tone  of  her  voice  I  remember, 
Each  turn  of  her  head,  of  her  arm  ; 

Methinks,  had  she  faults  out  of  number, 
Being  hers,  they  were  certain  to  charm. 

From  her  every  distance  I  measure  ; 

Each  mile  of  a  journey,  I  say  — 
"I  'm  so  much  the  nearer  my  treasure," 

Or  "so  much  the  farther  away." 

And  love  writes  my  almanac  also  ; 

The  good  days  and  bad  days  occur, 
The  fasts  and  the  festivals  fall  so, 

By  seeing  or  not  seeing  her. 


93 


Who  know  her,  they  're  happy,  they  only  ; 

Whatever  she  looks  on  turns  bright  ; 
Wherever  she  is  not,  is  lonely  ; 

Wherever  she  is,  is  delight. 

So  friendly  her  face  that  I  tremble, 
On  friendship  so  sweet  having  ruth  ; 

But  why  should  I  longer  dissemble  ? 
Or  will  you  not  guess  at  the  truth  ? 

And  that  is  —  dear  Maiden,  I  love  you  ! 

You  sweetest  and  brightest  and  best  !  — 
Good-luck  to  the  roof-tree  above  you, 

The  floor  where  your  footstep  is  press'd  ! 

May  some  new  deliciousness  meet  you 
On  every  new  day  of  the  Spring  ; 

Each  flow'r  in  its  turn  blooin  to  greet  you, 
Lark,  mavis,  and  nightingale  sing  ! 

May  kind  vernal  powers  in  your  bosom 

Their  tenderest  influence  shed  ! 
May  I  when  the  rose  is  in  blossom 
Enweave  you  a  crown,  white  and  red  ! 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 
'To  Earinfi." 


94  JEDttb 

EDITH. 

C  HE — so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 

Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she  past, 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing  by, 
Not  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor  roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than  themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy, 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy, — was  adored. 

ALFRED  (L,ORD)  TENNYSON. 
From  "Aylmer's  Field." 


EDITH. 

D  Y  those  blue  eyes  that  shine 

Dovelike  and  innocent, 
Yet  with  a  lustre  to  their  softness  lent, 
By  the  chaste  fire  of  guileless  purity, 
And  by  the  rounded  temple's  symmetry  ; 
And  by  the  auburn  locks,  disposed  apart, 
(I/ike  Virgin  Mary's  pictured  o'er  the  shrine) 
In  simple  negligence  of  art ; 


JEDltb  95 

By  the  young  smile  on  lips  whose  accents  fall 

With  dulcet  music,  bland  to  all, 

Like  downward  floating  blossoms  from  the  trees 

Detached  in  silver  showers  by  playful  breeze  ; 

And  by  the  cheek,  ever  so  purely  pale, 

Save   when    thy  heart  with  livelier   kindness 

glows ; 

By  its  then  tender  bloom,  whose  delicate  hue 
Is  like  the  morning's  tincture  of  the  rose, 
The  snowy  veils   of  the   gossamer  mist  seen 
through ; 

And  by  the  flowing  outline's  grace, 
Around  thy  features  like  a  halo  thrown, 

Reminding  of  that  noble  race 
Beneath  a  lovelier  heaven  in  kindlier  climates 
known, 

Whose  beauty,  both  the  moral  and  the  mortal, 
Stood  at  perfection's  portal 
And  still  doth  hold  a  rank  surpassing  all  com- 
pare 
By  the  divinely  meek  and  placid  air 

Which  witnesseth  so  well  that  all  the  charms 

It  lights  and  warms, 

Though  but  the  finer  fashion  of  the  clay 
Deserve  to  be  adored,  since  they 
Are  emanations  from  a  soul  allowed 

Thus  radiantly  to  glorify  its  dwelling 
That  goodness  like  a  visible  thing  avowed, 
May  awe  and  win,  and  temper  and  prevail : 


96  Blainc 

And  by  all  these  combined  ! 
I  call  upon  thy  form  ideal, 

So  deeply  in  my  memory  shrined, 
To  rise  before  my  vision,  like  the  real, 

Whenever  passion's  tides  are  swelling, 
Or  vanity  misleads,  or  discontent 
Rages  with  wishes,  vain  and  impotent. 
Then,  while  the  tumults  of  my  heart  increase, 

I  call  upon  thy  image — then  to  rise 
In  sweet  and  solemn  beauty,  like  the  moon, 
Resplendent  in  the  firmament  of  June, 

Through  the  still  hours  of  night  to  lonely 

eyes. 

I  gaze  and  muse  thereon,  and  tempests  cease — 
And  round  me  falls  an  atmosphere  of  peace. 
FRANCESCA  CAXFIELD. 


ELAINE. 

ULAINE  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's  earliest 

ray 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the  gleatn  ; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashioned  for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 


Blaine  97 

All  the  devices  blazoned  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father,  climbed 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barred  her 

door, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield, 
Now  guessed  a  hidden  meaning  in  his  arms, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon  it, 
Conjecturing  when    and  where :    this    cut   is 

fresh ; 
That  ten  years  back  ;  this  dealt  him  at  Caer- 

lyle  ; 

That  at  Caerleon  ;  this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah,  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was  there  ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  killed,  but 

God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  rolled  his  enemy 

down, 
And  saved  him  :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 
"  Idyls  of  the  King." 


98  Bleanora 

ELEANORA. 

AS  the  light  of  a  star  is  found, 

By  day,  in  the  sunless  ground, 
Where  the  river  of  silence  lies, — 
So  the  spirit  of  beauty  dwells, 
O  love,  in  the  mimic  wells 

Of  thy  large,  thy  luminous  eyes. 

As  out  of  a  turbulent  night, 
A  lost  bird  turns  to  the  light 

Of  a  desolate  dreamer's  room, — 
So,  forth  from  the  storm  of  thine  eyes, 
A  passionate  splendor  flies 

To  my  soul,  through  the  inter-gloom. 


As  a  lily  quivers  and  gleams, 

All  night,  by  the  darkling  streams, 

That  dream  in  the  underlands, — 
So,  up  from  the  haunted  lakes 
Of  thy  shadowy  eyes,  Love  shakes 

The  snows  of  her  beck'ning  hands. 

As  clusters  of  new  worlds  dawn, 
When  the  infinite  night  comes  on, 
In  the  measureless,  moonless  skies — 


Eleanore  99 

So  the  planet  of  love  burns  high, 

O  sweet,  when  the  day  sweeps  by, 

In  the  dusk  of  thy  orient  eyes. 

JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS. 
"  The  Eyes  of  Eleanora." 


ELEANORE. 


*"THY  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 

Nor  first  revealed  themselves  to  English 
air, 

For  there  is  nothing  here, 

Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighborhood, 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades  : 
And  nattering  thy  childish  thought 

The  oriental  fairy  brought, 

At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 


ioo  Eleanore 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore, 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 
With    whitest    honey  in    fairy    gardens 

cull'd— 

A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lull'd. 


Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 

Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 

Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 

Grape-thick  en 'd  from  the  light,  and  blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 

Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 


Bleanore  101 

Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 

All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 

Eleanore ! 


How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 

The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 

Eleanore  ? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 

Eleanore  ? 

Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 

And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?     For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single  ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 


102  Bleanorc 

Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 

Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep  ; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore  ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  ! 

6. 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 

Slowly  awakened,  grow  so  full  and  deep 

In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd  quite, 

I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light  ; 

As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 


Bleanore  103 

Bv'n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly  grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd — then  as  slowly  fade  again, 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before  ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

7- 

As  thunder-clouds,  that,  hung  on  high, 

Roof 'd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear, 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ; 
In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Coutrolleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 


104  Bleanore 

His  bow-string  slacken' d,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


8. 


But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  uncon- 

fined, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes   low   between   the   sunset   and  the 

moon  ; 

Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  curtains  half  reclined  ; 

I  watch  thy  grace  ;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face  ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soou 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  MY  name 
Floweth  ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife, 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with   delirious   draughts   of  warmest 
life. 


lElectra  105 

I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from  thee  ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 

I  would  be  dying  evermore, 

So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 

ALFRED  (I,ORD)  TENNYSON. 


ELECTRA. 

MY  Love  too  stately  is  to  be  but  fair, 

Too  fair  she  is  for  naught  but  stateliness  ; 
She  bids  me  Nay,  and  yet  a  silent  Yes 

Dwells  in  the  dusk  her  shadowy  eyelids  wear. 

My  Love's  step  makes  a  music  in  the  air, 

Touching  the  sense  with  a  divine  caress, 
And  all  the  rapture  of  the  dawn  doth  bless 

The  light  that  leaps  to  life  across  her  hair. 

Her  mouth  is  just  the  love-couch  for  a  song, 
And  'mid  the  fragrance  of  its  riven  flowers 
Low  laughter  breakes  and  trembles  close 

to  tears, 
Mingled  of  mirth  and  melody,  as  a  throng 

Of  bird-notes  wakes  to  joy  the  drowsy  hours 
And  weaves  delight  through  all  the  griev- 
ing years. 

FRANCIS  HOWARD  WILLIAMS. 


io6 

ELFRIDA. 

'"THE  rows  of  corn  like  plumed  knights 

Stood  up  to  guard  the  farmer's  daughter, 

And  shook  and  rustled  mockingly 

The  while  that  love  and  1  besought  her. 

"  Ah,  love  !  "  I  cried,  "  your  heavenly  eyes, 
Your  golden  hair,  my  sweet  Elfrida, 

Have  set  a  snare  to  catch  my  heart, 

And  brought  me  here  a  special  pleader. 

"  Now  how  much  love  have  you  to  spare  ?  " 
She  laughed  a  laugh  like  running  water ; 

"  Say,  how  much  for  the  eyes  and  hair, 

And  how  much  for  the  farmer's  daughter  ? ' 

Her  voice  rang  out  so  eerily, 

She  tripped  away  so  feat  and  airy, 

I  said  :  "  Now  did  they  name  you  right, 
And  are  you  half  an  elf  or  fairy  ?  " 

"In  sooth,"  she  laughed,  "we  're  all  akin. 

The  squirrel  is  my  younger  brother  ; 
The  bird  and  bee  make  love  to  me 

So  well,  I  laugh  at  any  other. 

"  Go  !  take  a  lesson  of  the  brook 

That  woos  the  tree-top  to  embrace  it ; 

Go  !  ask  the  robin  on  his  nest 

How  he  persuades  his  mate  to  grace  it. 


107 


<l  They  do  not  bungle,  like  a  man, 

They  know  a  thousand  sweet  love-phrases  ; 
"But  you,  you  laud  her  eyes  and  hair, 

And  woo  a  maiden  with  cheap  praises. 

"  Go  !  study  how  to  win  a  soul  ! 

The  art  will  well  repay  your  learning." 
She  turned  and  through  the  corn  rows  sped, 

My  longing  vision  scarce  discerning, 

Which  were  her  curls  of  golden  floss, 

And  which  the  corn-stalks'  yellow  tassels  ; 

I  only  know  they  held  her  safe 

From  touch  of  mine,  like  trusty  vassals. 

MARY  CHASE  PECKHAM. 


ELISE. 

\X7OULD  I  could  write  for  my  Elise 

Trim  triolets  and  tensons  tender, 
And  send  them  by  the  passing  breeze  ! 
Would  I  could  write  for  my  Elise 
Rhymes  that  might  touch  and  tease  and  please, 

And  make  her  think  upon  the  sender  ! 
Would  I  could  write  for  my  Elise 

Trim  triolets  and  tensons  tender  ! 


Sweets  to  the  sweet !  O  honey-bees 

Go,  pillage  all  the  woodland  bowers  ! 

Go,  plunder  all  the  broidered  leas  ; 

Sweets  to  the  sweet !  O  honey  bees 

Forget  your  hives,  to  my  Elise 

Bring  the  sweet  spoils  of  sweetest  flowers  ! 

Sweets  to  the  sweet !  O  honey-bees 

Go,  pillage  all  the  woodland  bowers  ! 

In  her  fair  garden,  my  Elise 

Sits  murmuring  an  ancient  lay, 
Of  lover's  woes  and  lover's  ease. 
In  her  fair  garden,  iny  Elise 
Sings,  and  lest  her  sweet  song  should  cease, 

The  bird  is  silent  on  the  spray. 
In  her  fair  garden,  my  Elise 

Sits  murmuring  an  ancient  lay. 

The  winter  wind  moans  through  the  trees, 
No  sweet  bird  sings,  the  fields  are  sere, 

The  flowers  are  dead  ;  the  winters  freeze, 

The  winter  wind  moans  through  the  trees  ; 

But  by  the  bower  of  my  Elise 

The  summer  lingers  all  the  year. 

The  winter  wind  moans  through  the  trees, 
No  sweet  bird  sings,  the  fields  are  sere. 
HENR.Y  GAELVN. 

"To  Elise." 


109 

ELIZA. 

•"TURN  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 
Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Caust  thou  break  his  faithfu'  heart  ? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza  ; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies, 
For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 

Under  friendship's  kind  disguise  ! 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I  offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee  : 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever 

Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ! 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe  : 
Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom, 

In  the  pride  o'  sinny  noon  ; 
Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon  ; 
Not  the  poet  in  the  moment 

Fancy  lightens  on  his  ee, 
Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture 

That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
'Fair  Eliza." 


ELIZABETH. 

CLIZABETH,  alack,  Elizabeth! 

Your  lovely  lilies  blow, 

Slim,  love,  still,  love,  beside  the  echoing  stair. 
The  bees  have  found  them  out.     Row  after 

row 

Your  pinks,  those  little  blossoms  -with  a  breath 
Blown   from  the  east,  and  out  the  spice-trees 

there, 

Nod  up  the  paths  ;  and  roses  white  as  death, 
And  roses  red  as  love,  grow  everywhere  ; 
For  June  is  at  the  door. 

Alack,  alack,  alack,  Elizabeth  ! 
Sweeter  than  June,  why  do  you  come  no  more  ? 
LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE. 


ELIZABETH. 

VOU  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light  ; 

You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise  ? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 
That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays, 


Ella  in 

Thinking  your  passion  's  understood 

By  your  weak  accents  ;  what  's  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  doth  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own, — 

What  are  you  when  the  Rose  is  blown  ? 

So  when  my  Mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind, 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen, 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 

Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 
"  To  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia." 


ELLA. 

(~\T?  all  the  blooming  ones  of  Nisitisit, 

I  fain  would  ask  thee,  Ella  dear,  why  is  it 
That  one  alone  seems  fair  ? 
That  when  a  hundred  eyes  are  round  me  beam- 
ing, 

Enough  to  set  a  frozen  stoic  dreaming, 
I  only  ask  a  pair  ? 


H2  iglla 

Was  there  but  one  so  made  to  be  admired  ? 
Was  there  but  one  so  formed  to  be  desired, 

And  hold  a  heart  in  thrall  ? 
Not  the  rose  only  charms  me  'mid  the  flowers, 
When  gentle    Flora   leads    me    through    her 
bowers, 

But  I  must  love  them  all. 

But  when  I  stand  amid  earth's  fairest  creatures, 
Then  Rosa's,  Hinda's,  and  Miranda's  features 

To  me  are  all  the  same  ; 

And  queen-like  Bvelyn,  whose  eye-beam  flashes 
Such  floods  of  lustre  through  her  silken  lashes, 

Excites  in  me  no  flame. 

But  yet  't  is  not    that  brightest  charms  are 

wanting, 

For  others  gaze  and  think  them  most  enchant- 
ing, 

Howe'er  they  seem  to  me. 
Nor  shall  it  be  that  I  myself  am  stupid, 
Oh  !  no,  't  is  that  unchristian  villain,  Cupid, 
So  blinds  me  I  can't  see. 

But  there  is  one  I  wish  forever  near  me, 
Whose  eyes  of  gentle  light  so  soothe  and  cheer 

me, 

And  through  my  spirit  dart 
That  oft  for  hours  I  linger  round  about  her, 


Bllen  113 

And  feel  as  if  I  could  not  do  without  her, 
Then  going,  leave  my  heart. 

Ask  you  her  name  ?     Alas,  within  my  bower 
I  only  utter  it  at  twilight  hour, — 

Too  pure  for  other  light. 
So  spare  me  now,  sweet  Ell,  and  I  will  wreathe 

it 
In  flowers  for  thee  hereafter  that  shall  breathe  it 

In  fragrance  and  delight. 

HENRY  H.  SAUNDERSON. 


ELLEN. 

A  ND  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 
Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face  : 
What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 
Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown, — 
The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light 
Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright, 
Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 
Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow  : 
What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 
To  measured  mood  had  trained  her  pace, — 
A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 

Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dash'd  the  dew; 
8 


H4  Bllen 

E'en  the  slight  harebell  raised  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  : 
What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 
The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue, — 
Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  clear, 
The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear  ! 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
From  "  The  Lady  of  the  I^ake." 


ELLEN. 

/^)F  wealth  in  profusion 
I  seek  not  to  share  ; 
It  brings  but  confusion, 

With  trouble  and  care. 
One  gem  that  is  rarest 

I  seek  to  obtain  : 
O  bring  me  my  dearest — 

My  Ellen  again  ! 

Her  eyes  are  the  brightest 

In  lustre  and  hue  ; 
Her  step  is  the  lightest 

That  brushes  the  dew  ; 
She  smiles  like  the  blossom 

Expanding  in  rain — 
O  give  to  this  bosom 

My  Ellen  again  ! 


Blsie  115 

All  objects  in  nature 

Attractive  or  fair 
Recall  every  feature — 

Her  form  and  her  air  ; 
But  morning  is  lonely — 

The  evening  how  vain  ! 

0  bring  to  me  only 
My  Ellen  again  ! 

1  loved  her  from  childhood, 
And  cannot  forget, 

By  streamlet  and  wildwood, 
The  spots  where  we  met. 

Ye  powers  bending  o'er  me, 
O  listen  my  strain — 

In  safety  restore  me 
My  Ellen  again  ! 

ROBERT  WHITE. 


ELSIE. 

U  LSIE,  Elsie,  sweet  Adair  ; 

Hail  you  from  the  upper  air  ? 
Graceful  as  the  fabled  fairy 
In  your  silken  robes  so  airy  ; 
With  the  mellow  music  swaying  ; 
While  the  colored  lights  are  playing 
On  the  vision  transitory  ; 


n6  Elsie 

'T  is  a  picture  out  of  glory  ; 
For  with  angels  you  compare, 
Elsie,  Blsie,  sweet  Adair  ! 

Elsie,  Elsie,  sweet  Adair  ; 
With  a  smile  so  debonair  ; 
Graceful  as  the  waving  willow, 
Or  the  rolling,  dancing  billow  ; 
Turning,  twisting,  swinging,  bending ; 
Every  charm  on  thee  attending, 
With  such  melody  of  motion, 
One  cannot  resist  the  notion  : 
Hearts  are  broke  beyond  repair, 
Elsie,  Elsie,  sweet  Adair  ! 

Elsie,  Elsie,  have  a  care. 

Somersaulting  in  the  air  ! 

L,ucky  worm  whose  gorgeous  spinning 

Robes  the  dancing  maid  so  winning; 

While  the  silken  wings  go  whirling, 

Fold  on  fold,  in  rapture  curling  ; 

Deeming  it  a  pleasant  duty 

To  enfold  such  grace  and  beauty. 

Chaste  and  charming  thing  of  air, 

Elsie,  Elsie,  sweet  Adair  ! 

FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS. 
"  Elsie  Adair." 


Bmilg  117 

EMILY. 

HTRIPPING  along  through  the  meadow, 

Footsteps  so  graceful  and  light, 
Golden  curls  floating  around  her, 

Blue  eyes  bewitchingly  bright, 
White  teeth,  and  lips  like  twin  cherries, 

Cheeks  like  the  roses  in  May, 
Tripping  along  through  the  meadow, 

Comes  pretty  Emily  Grey — 
Golden-haired  Emily,  cherry-lipped  Emily, 

Beautiful  Emily  Grey. 

See  !     Now  she  pauses  to  listen. 

What  has  the  dear  maiden  heard  ? 
'T  was  but  the  leaves,  as  they  rustled 

'Neath  the  light  wings  of  a  bird. 
Nay,  't  was  a  footstep  approaching, 

Somebody  coming  this  way — 
Hark  !    "  Won't  you  wait  for  me,  Emily  ? 

Wait  for  me,  Emily  Grey. 
Listen,  dear  Emily — stay,  darling  Emily, 

Mischievous  Emily  Grey." 

Shaking  her  bright  curls,  she  hastens 

Onward  as  fleet  as  the  wind, 
Never  once  stopping  a  moment, 

Only  once  glancing  behind  ; 


us  )6mma 

Till  a  strong  arm,  stealing  around  her 
Forces  her  footsteps  to  stay. 

Fain  would  she  chide,  but  she  cannot — 
Kind-hearted  Emily  Grey. 

Fleet-footed  Emily,  light-hearted  Emily, 
Dear  little  Emily  Grey. 

ELLEN  FORRESTER. 
"Emily  Grey." 


EMMA. 

A  X/HY,  pretty  rogue  !  do  you  protest 
•The  trick  of  stealing  you  detest  ? 
'T  is  what  your  doing  every  day, 
Either  in  earnest  or  in  play. 
Cupid  and  you,  't  is  said,  are  cousins, 
(Aufait  in  stealing  hearts  by  dozens) 
Who  make  no  more  of  shooting  sparks, 
Than  schoolboys  do  of  wounding  larks  ; 
Nay,  what  is  worse,  't  is  my  belief, 
Though  known  to  be  an  arrant  thief, 
Such  powers  of  witchcraft  are  your  own, 
That  Justice  slumbers  on  her  throne  ; 
And  should  you  be  arraign'd  in  court 
For  practising  this  cruel  sport, 
In  spite  of  all  the  plaintiffs  fury 
Your  smile  would  bribe  both  judge  and  jury. 


Bsste  119 

ESSIE. 

CEE,  Essie  goes  ! — and  thou,  proud  rose, 

Ah,  where  is  now  th^  vain  delight, 

When  round  thee  swung  yon  bee  and  sung, 

No  beauty  matched  thy  beauty  bright? 

Adown  the  close — see,  Essie  goes  ; 

And  see,  enchanted  at  the  sight, 
Around  her  swings  yon  bee  and  sings, 

Her  beauty  mocks  thy  beauty  bright ! 

JOSEPH  SKIPSEY. 
'  See,  Essie  Goes  !  " 


ESTEI/LE. 

M  O  god  were  so  supremely  blest, 

Could  I  my  weary  sorrows  rest, 
Upon  thy  tender-breathing  breast, 

Estelle. 

Culling  the  rainbow's  loveliest  rays 

To  deck  with  brightest  flowers  thy  praise, 

The  burden  of  immortal  lays, 

Estelle. 

Watching  thy  words  in  music  flow, 
Thy  frolic  glances  kindlier  grow, 
Thy  smiles  their  changing  sunshine  show, 

Estelle. 


120  fistber 

Wearing  thj'  soft  arms'  rosy  wreath, 
Drinking  thy  hyacinthine  breath, 
Through  blissful  life  to  blissful  death, 

Estelle. 

Happy  my  life's  sweet  labor  done, 
To  see  thy  name  the  proudest  one 
That  fame  has  carved  upon  the  sun, 

Estelle. 
WILLIAM  T.  WASHBURN. 


ESTHER. 

COR  Esther  was  a  woman  most  complete 

In  all  her  ways  of  loving.     And  with  me 
Dealt  as  one  deals  who  careless  of  deceit 
And  rich  in  all  things  is  of  all  things  free. 
She  did  not  stop  with  me  to  feel  her  way 
Into  my  heart,  because  she  all  hearts  knew, 
But,  like  some  prodigal  heir  of  yesterday 
Just  in  possession,  counted  not  her  due 
And  grandly  gave.     O  brave  humility  ! 
O  joy  that  kneels  !    O  pride  that  stoops  to  tears  ! 
She  spent  where  others  had  demanded  fee, 
Served  where  all  service  had  of  right  been  hers, 
Casting  her  bread  of  life  upon  love's  ways, 
Content  to  find  it  after  many  days. 

WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT. 


Btbel  121 

ETHEL. 

\X7HAT  hast  thou   seen   in    Ethel's   tender 
eyes? 

An  altar  sacred  as  Dodona's  shrine  ? 

Or  canst  thou  in  their  darkling  depths  divine 
A  host  of  vague  and  subtle  mysteries, 
A  witching  power  that  never  latent  lies, 

But  warms  the  blood    like   rare    Falernian 
wine — 

A  lustrous  gleam  as  from  the  stars  that  shine 
At  frosty  midnight  in  the  sapphire  skies  ? 

Ah  !  I  have  found  them  beaming  beacon  lights 
Upon    the    shore    where    grim    Temptation 

stands, 
Guiding  my  feet  away  from  rocky  heights, 

And  warning  me  against  engulfing  sands  ; 
Leading  me  onward  toward  the  pure  delights 
That  wait  for  those  who  follow  love's  com- 
mands. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 
"  Discovery." 


122  JEtbel 

ETHEI/. 

"IN  teacup  times  !  "     The  style  of  dress 
Would  suit  your  beauty,  I  confess  ; 

Belinda-like,  the  patch  you  'd  wear  ; 

I  picture  you  with  powdred  hair, — 
You  'd  make  a  charming  Shepherdess  ! 

And  I — no  doubt — could  well  express 
Sir  Plume's  complete  conceitedness, — 
Could  poise  a  clouded  cane  with  care 
"  In  teacup  times  !  " 

The  parts  would  fit  precisely — yes  : 
We  should  achieve  a  great  success  ! 
You  should  disdain,  and  I  despair, 
With  quite  the  true  Augustan  air ; 
But  .  .  .  could  I  love  you  more,  or  less, — 
"  In  teacup  times  ?  " 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
"A  Rondeau  to  Ethel." 


ETHELWYN. 


C  HE  came  with  light  steps  thro'  the  old  house 

door, 

With  music  on  her  lips  and  in  her  feet 
And  all  about  her  a  most  airy  grace, 


Bttarre  123 

That  made  one  think  of  a  young  day  in  spring 
When  earth  and  leaf  and  sky  are  exquisite 
In  the  first  rapture  of  their  tender  life.     .     .     . 
A  sunbeam  kissed  her  cheek,  at  her  soft  breast 
White  roses  clung,  and  sweet  fresh  sights  and 

sounds 
Breathed  from  her  as  she  moved,  and  thro'  the 

door 

The  sunlight  crept  and  stole  about  her  robe 
As  though  it  loved  her.      ...     As  she  came 

she  sang 

A  quaint  old  song  that  hearing  it  by  chance 
Had  caught  her  fancy. 

HELEN  MATHERS. 
From  '   The  Token  of  the  Silver  Lily." 


ETTARRE. 

I   ARGE  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her  bloom 

A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  womanhood, 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small  her  shape, 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,   the   haunts  of 

scorn, 

She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with, 
And  pass  and  care  no  more. 

ALFRED  (IXJRD)  TENNYSON. 
From  "  Pelleas  and  Ettarre." 


124  Eugenia 

EUGENIA. 

\X7HAT  pearl  of  price  within  her  lay 

I  could  not  know  when  first  I  met  her 
So  little  studious  for  herself, 

Almost  she  ask'd  we  should  forget  her  : 
As  the  rose-heart  at  prime  of  dawn, 
Herself  within  herself  withdrawn  : 
And  yet  we  felt  that  something  there 
Was  fairer  than  the  fairest  fair. 

I  mark'd  her  goings  through  the  day, 
Intent  upon  her  maiden  mission  : 
The  manners  moulded  on  the  mind  ; 

The  flawless  sense,  the  sweet  decision. 
So  gracious  to  the  hands  she  task'd, 
She  seems  to  do  the  thing  she  ask'd  : 
And  then  I  knew  that  something  there 
Was  fairer  than  the  fairest  fair. 

Her  eyes  spoke  peace  ;  and  voice  and  step 

The  message  of  her  eyes  repeated  ; 
Truth  halo-bright  about  her  brows, 

And  Faith  on  the  fair  forehead  seated, 
And  lips  where  Candor  holds  his  throne, 
And  sense  and  sweetness  are  at  one  : 
I  look  and  look  ;  and  something  there 
Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  fair. 


Bulalie  125 

As  some  still  upward-gazing  lake 

Round  which  the  moun  tain-rampart  closes 
Crystalline  bright  and  diamond  pure, 

In  azure  depth  of  peace  reposes  ; 
And  Heaven  comes  down  with  all  its  grace 
To  find  itself  within  her  face  ; 
And  the  heart  owns  that  something  there 
Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  fair. 

"  O  just  and  faithful  child  of  God  ! 

Thrice  happy  he,"  I  cried,  "  who  by  her 
Finds  in  her  eyes  the  home  of  home, 

Reads  in  her  smile  his  heart's  desire  ; 
The  smile  of  beauty  from  above 
Of  equable  and  perfect  love  !  " 
— I  sigh'd — she  smiled  ;  and  something  there 
Was  fairer  than  the  fairest  fair. 

FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 


EULAUE. 

T  T  ER  voice  is  like  the  mocking-bird's  upon  the 

myrtle  tree, 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  summer  stars  that  frolic  on 

the  sea  ; 
Oh,  't  is  rapture  to  look  at  her  ;  and  sets  my 

heart  abeat, 
Just  to  catch  the  pretty  patter  of  her  merry  little 

feet. 


126  Eulalie 

The  Fairies  spun  her  tresses  on  a  spindle  made 

of  pearl, 
Then  dipped  them  in  the  summer  shine  and  put 

them  up  in  curl  ; 
And  when  I  see  them  flutter,  as  she  dances  in 

the  wind, 
I  wish  I  were  a  butterfly,  or — something  of  the 

kind. 

I  know  that  Cupid  did  it,  and  think  it  was  a 

sin 
To  carve  a  cunning  dimple  in  the  middle  of  her 

chin  ; 
For  it  is   a   crime  to  covet — so  says  the  Ivaw 

Divine — 
Yet  I  look  at  it,  and  love  it,  and  I  want  it  all  for 

mine. 

She   whispers  that  she  loves  me  !     Now  be  it 

understood, 
The  tidings  are  delightful — I  'd  believe  them  if 

I  could  ; 

But  in  her  vocabulary  with  its  tantalizing  flow 
The  truth  will  often  tarry  far  behind  a  "  yes," 

or  "no." 

She  smiles  at  me  !     She   frowns  at  me  !     She 
knows  I  cannot  fly  ; 


Bva  127 

O  Cupid  come  and  aid  me  with  an  arrow  on  the 

sly, 
That    when    the   orange   bowers  are  blowing, 

Eulalie 
May  wear  the  snowy  flowers  in  a  bridal  wreath 

for  me ! 

SAMUEL,  MLNTURN  PECK. 


EVA. 

S~*\  FAIR  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 
^^^     Were  kindled  in  the  upper  skies 

At  the  same  torch  that  lighted  mine ; 
For  so  I  must  interpret  still 
That  sweet  dominion  o'er  my  will, 

A  sympathy  divine. 

Ah  !  let  me  blameless  gaze  upon 
Features  that  seem  at  heart  my  own  ; 

Nor  fear  those  watchful  sentinels, 
Who  charm  the  more  their  glance  forbids, 
Chaste-glowing,  underneath  their  lids, 

With  fire  that  draws  while  it  repels. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 
To  Eva." 


128 

EVANGELINFv. 

UAIR  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seven- 
teen summers. 

Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on 
the  thorn  by  the  wayside, 

Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the 
brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 

Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that 
feed  in  the  meadows. 

When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reap- 
ers at  noontide 

Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah !  fair  in  sooth 
was  the  maiden, 

Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while 
the  bell  from  its  turret 

Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest 
with  his  hyssop 

Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  bless- 
ings upon  them, 

Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chap- 
let  of  beads  and  her  missal, 

Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of 
blue,  and  the  ear-rings, 

Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and 
since,  as  an  heirloom, 

Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through 
long  generations. 

But  a  celestial  brightness — a  more  ethereal 
beauty — 


129 


Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when, 

after  confession, 
Homeward   serenely  she   walked   with    God's 

benediction  upon  her. 
When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceas- 

ing of  exquisite  music. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
From  "  Evangeline.  " 


EVELYN. 

A   SOFT,  black  eye — so  deep,  so  deep, 

Its  liquid  depths  no  glance  may  follow. 
A  face  where  lights  and  shadows  creep 
O'er  arching  brow  and  dimpled  hollow. 

A  voice,  now  loud  in  maiden  glee — 
As  tides  on  pebbly  reaches  throbbing — 

Now  sorrow-hushed  as  sunset  sea 
In  purple  rays  at  even  sobbing. 

Oh,  twining  hands  !     Oh,  rich,  dark  sheen 
Of  gleaming  braids,  that  crown  in  glory 

A  face  as  fair  as  spirits  seen 

In  ancient  books  of  Bible  story. 

Oh,  Love  !     Oh,  Life  !  like  generous  wine — 

9 


130 


Like  breezes  from   the  streams  and  moun- 

tains — 
Thy  presence  thrills  this  soul  of  mine, 

Thy  glances  stir  my  heart's  deep  fountains. 

Oh,  L,ove  !     Oh,  Life  !  a  rose,  a  weed, 
Touched  by  thy  hand,  my  peerless  beauty, 

Is  cherished  with  the  miser's  greed, 
And  guarded  well  in  jealous  duty. 

But  though  you  've  woven,  warp  and  woof, 
Into  the  thread  of  my  life's  passion, 

I  dare  not  speak,  but  stand  aloof, 
And  dream  and  sigh  —  the  olden  fashion. 

DANIEL  O'CONNELI,. 


FANNY. 

M  ATURE,  thy  fan:  and  smiling  face 
Has  now  a  double  power  to  bless 
For  't  is  the  glass  in  which  I  trace 
My  absent  Fanny's  loveliness. 

Her  heavenly  eyes  above  me  shine, 
The  rose  reflects  her  modest  blush, 

She  breathes  in  every  eglantine, 
She  sings  in  every  warbling  thrush. 


tfanng  131 

That  her  dear  form  alone  I  see, 
Need  not  excite  surprise  in  any  ; 

For  Fanny  's  all  the  world  to  me, 
And  all  the  world  to  me  is  Fanny. 

JAMES  SMITH. 
"  Song  to  Fanny." 


FANNY. 

"  CHE  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep 

your  heart  cool  ; 
She   has    wit,  but  you   must  n't  be   caught 

so": 

Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason  's  a  fool, 
And  't  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so, 

Dear  Fanny, 
'T  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so. 

"  She  is  lovely  ;  then  love  her,  nor  let  the  bliss 

fly; 

'T  is  the  charm    of   youth's  vanishing  sea- 
son "  : 

Thus  Love  has  advised  me,  and  who  will  deny 
That  Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason, 

Dear  Fanny  ? 
Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


132 

FIDESSA. 

'TONGUE  !     never    cease    to    sing    Fidessa's 

praise  ; 

Heart !  howe'er  she  deserve,  conceive  the  best ; 
Eyes  !  stand  amazed  to  see  her  beauty's  rays  ; 
Lips  !  steal  one  kiss  and  be  for  ever  blessed  ; 
Hands  !  touch  that  hand  wherein  your  life  is 

closed  ; 
Breast !    lock   up   fast   in   thee   thy   life's   sole 

treasure  ; 

Arms  !  still  embrace,  and  never  be  disclosed  ; 
Feet !  ruu  to  her  without  or  pace  or  measure  : 
Tongue  !  heart !  eyes  !  lips  !  hands  !  breast ! 

arms  !  feet  ! 

Consent  to  do  true  homage  to  your  Queen  : 
Lovely,  fair,  gent,  wise,  virtuous,  sober,  sweet, 
Whose  like  shall  never  be,  hath  never  been  ! 
O  that  I  were  all  tongue,  her  praise  to  show  ! 
Then  surely  my  poor  heart  were  free  from  woe. 

BARTHOLOMEW  GRIFFIN. 


FLEURETTE. 

THE  books  of  each  old  love-poet 

Are  warm  with  the  touch  of  jour  hand  ; 
Your  voice — the  Psyche  would  know  it, 
Would  feel  it  and  understand, 


ffleurette  133 

And  thrill  in  her  marble  splendor  ; 
The  harp  rich  music  would  render, 
And  the  walls  re-echo  yet 
The  sweetest  of  names,  Fleurette, 
Fleurette  ! 

This  oaken  nook  where  you  studied 
Ofttimes  I  entwined  with  flowers, 
Here  the  rose  of  Hellas  budded 
In  the  deep  Homeric  bowers. 
But  clearer  far  than  Attic  Greek 

The  name  wherewith  your  heart  did  speak — 
Whose  resonance  thrills  me  yet, 
As  dreaming  I  hear,  Fleurette, 

Fleurette ! 

In  your  presence,  care  and  aching 

Blossomed  to  exquisite  peace  ; 
In  my  young  heart  heaven  awaking 

Bade  Life's  vain  doubting  cease. 
Love  made  me  a  sheltered  bower, 
Is  it  strange  I  grew  like  a  Tower? 
Ah,  the  sunlight  lingers  yet, 
And  you  say,  "  My  own  Fleurette, 
Fleurette ! " 

O  land  of  the  poet's  vision, 

What  beauty  do  you  bespeak  ! 
What  holds  you  in  fields  Elysian 

Thrice  fairer  than  dream  of  Greek  ! 


134  fflora 

Through  me  the  long  vista  of  the  years, 
Only  one  voice  my  fancy  hears, 
Mine  when  life's  last  sun  is  set, 
Mine  to  follow  the  call,  "Fleurette, 
"Fleurette!" 

FANNY  H.  RUNNELS  POOL. 
"  In  the  Library." 


FLORA. 

(~\  FLORA,  sweetest  Flora,  there  were  never 

smiles  like  thine, 
When  the  fairest   and  the  purest  smiled  on 

heaven  without  a  stain  ; 
There  was  never  rapture   born   so  sweet,  nor 

pleasure  so  divine 
As  the  pleasure  and  the  rapture  brought  by 

thee  from  bliss  again  ; 
The  starry  dawns   around  thee  come  to  steal 

their  songs  and  dyes, 
The  morning  bids  thee  welcome,  for  the  day 

with  thee  will  shine  ; 
And    the    golden   rays    will   crown  the  bower 

wherein  my  blossom  lies  ; — 
O   Flora,    sweetest    Flora,  there  were  never 
smiles  like  thine. 


Florence  135 

O  Flora,  sweetest  Flora,  there  were  never  smiles 

like  thine, 
For  through  my  heart  and  through  my  heart 

the  tides  of  joy  they  sway  ; 
And  o'er  my  brow  and  round  my  steps  with 

brighter  glow  combine 
Than  ever  cheered  the  pilgrim's  path  along 

the  cloudless  way  : 
The  dream  that  thou  dost  love  me  is  my  bosom's 

fairest  bloom, 
The  dream  that  thou  dost  love  me  with  a  love 

as  deep  as  mine  ; 
With  thee  to  bless  me,  never  could  the  world 

have  grief  or  gloom  ; — 

O    Flora,  sweetest   Flora,   there  were  never 
smiles  like  thine. 

A.  STEPHEN  WILSON. 


FLORENCE. 

TF  all  God's  world  a  garden  were, 

If  women  were  but  flowers  ; 
If  men  were  bees  that  busied  there, 
Through  all  the  summer  hours, — 
Oh,  I  would  hum  God's  garden  through 
For  honey,  till  I  came  to  you. 


fflortne 

Then  I  should  hive  within  your  hair, 
Its  sun  and  gold  together  : 

And  I  should  hide  in  glory  there, 
Through  all  the  changeful  weather. 

Oh  !  I  should  sip  but  one,  this  one 

Sweet  flower  beneath  the  sun. 

Oh,  I  would  be  a  king,  and  coin- 
Your  golden  hair  in  money  ; 

And  I  would  only  have  to  seek 
Your  lips  for  hoards  of  honey. 

Oh  !  I  would  be  the  richest  king 

That  ever  wore  a  signet-ring. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


FLORINE. 

A  S  knights  in  olden  time  went  forth  to  fight 
For  crowns  of  war,  and  won  the  world's 

applause, 
Whose  echoes  told  of  triumph  in  a  cause 

That  gave  to  honor  strength,  and  blessed  the 

right, 
So  will  I  battle  but  in  mortal  might, 

My  sword  a  song  of  thee  that  nations  pause 
To  hear  ;  my  shield  my  faith  in  thee,  whose 

laws 
Shall  lead  the  world  from  darkness  into  light. 


^Frances  137 

My  love  for  thee  shall  be  my  helmet  strong. 

Then  will  I  sing  the  glory  of  thy  name, 
Thy  grace,  thy  beauty  and  nobility. 

Then  will  the  world  find  peace  in  love  and 

song 

By  thee   inspired.     The  heavens  will  joy  pro- 
claim, 
And  laurels  won  shall  bring  thee  ecstasy. 

EDWARD  FREIBERGER. 


FRANCES. 

"THOU  wouldst  be  loved  ?— Then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love — a  simple  duty. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

"To  F s  S.  O d." 


GENEVIEVE. 

IV  A  AID  of  my  Love,  sweet  Genevieve  ! 
In  Beauty's  light  you  glide  along  : 
Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve, 


138  ©enevieve 

And  sweet  your  Voice,  as  seraph's  song. 

Yet  not  your  heavenly  beauty  gives 

This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow  : 

Within  your  soul  a  Voice  there  lives  ! 

It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  Woe. 

When  sinking  low  the  Sufferer  wan 

Beholds  no  hand  outstretched  to  save, 

Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  Swan 

That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 

I  've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave, 

And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Genevieve  ! 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


GENEVIEVE. 

(^)H,  Genevieve,  I  'd  give  the  world 

To  live  again  the  lovely  Past! 
The  rose  of  youth  was  dew-impearled  ; 

But  now  it  withers  in  the  blast. 
I  see  thy  face  in  every  dream, 

My  waking  thoughts  are  full  of  thee 
Thy  glance  is  in  the  starry  beam 

That  falls  along  the  summer  sea. 
Oh,  Genevieve,  sweet  Genevieve, 

The  days  may  bring  me  joy  or  woe, 
But  still  the  hands  of  Memory  weave 

The  blissful  dreams  of  long  ago, 
Sweet  Genevieve ! 


(Senevra  139 

Oh,  Genevieve,  my  early  love, 

The  years  but  make  thee  dearer  far  ! 
My  heart  from  thee  shall  never  rove, 

Thou  art  my  only  guiding  star  ! 
For  me  the  Past  has  no  regret, 

Whate'er  the  years  may  bring  to  me  ; 
I  bless  the  hour  when  first  we  met, — 

The  hour  that  gave  me  love  and  thee  ! 
Oh,  Genevieve,  sweet  Genevieve, 

The  days  may  bring  me  joy  or  woe, 
But  still  the  hands  of  Memory  weave 

The  blissful  dreams  of  long  ago, 
Sweet  Genevieve  ! 

GEORGE  COOPER. 
'Sweet  Genevieve." 


GENEVRA. 

'THY  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from 

woe, 

And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 
My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow  : 
And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes, — but,  Oh  ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 
Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 


140  CJeorgiana 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depend- 
ing, 

The  soul  of  melancholy  gentleness 
Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 
At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  can  not  love  thee  less. 

LORD  BYRON. 
"To  Genevra." 


GEORGIANA. 

'THERE  crowd  your  finely-fibred  frame, 

All  living  faculties  of  bliss  ; 
And  Genius  to  your  cradle  came, 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame, 
And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 
Breath'd  in  a  more  celestial  life  ; 
But  boasts  not  many  a  fair  compeer, 

A  heart  as  sensitive  to  joy  and  fear? 
And   some,  perchance,   might  wage   an   equal 

strife, 

Some  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Co-rivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought. 

Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 

Laurelled  War  and  plumy  State  ; 

Or  in  verse  and  music  dress 

Tales  of  rustic  happiness — 


<3eralDtne  141 

Pernicious  Tales  !  insidious  Strains  ! 
That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast, 
And  mock  the  lot  uublest, 
The  sordid  vices  and  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  Ignorance  and  Penury  ! 
But  you,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  Chapel  and  the  Platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Where  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 
From  "  Ode  to  Georgians,  Dutchess  of  Devonshire." 


H 


GERALDINE. 

[AS  any  one  seen 

My  lost  Geraldine  ? 
My  beautiful,  dutiful,  dear  Geraldine ! 
Has  she  been  this  way 
In  the  course  of  the  day  ? 
Tell  me  truly,  ye  swains. 

You  would  know  Geraldine, 
My  idolized  queen, 
By  the  glimmering,  shimmering,  silvery  sheen 


142  OeralDine 

Of  her  curling  hair 
As  it  floats  on  the  air 

In  the  glamouring  light. 

SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK. 
From  "  Geraldine." 


GERALDINE. 

She  will  not  need  the  Shepherd's  crook, 
Her  griefs  are  only  passing  shadow  ; 

She '  //  bask  beside  the  purest  brook, 
And  nibble  in  the  greenest  meadow. 

A  simple  child  has  claims 

On  your  sentiment,  her  name's 

Geraldine. 

Be  tender,  but  beware, 
She  's  frolicsome  as  fair, — 

And  fifteen. 

She  has  gifts  to  grace  allied, 
And  each  she  has  applied, 

And  improved : 

She  has  bliss  that  lives  and  leans 
On  loving, — ah,  that  means 

She  is  loved. 

Her  beauty  is  refined 
By  sweet  harmony  of  mind, 
And  the  art, 


143 


And  the  blessed  nature,  too, 
Of  a  tender,  of  a  true 
Little  heart. 

And  yet  I  must  not  vault 
Over  any  foolish  fault 

That  she  owns  ; 
Or  others  might  rebel, 
And  enviously  swell 

In  their  zones. 

For  she  's  tricksy  as  the  fays, 
Or  her  pussy  when  it  plays 

With  a  string  : 
She  's  a  goose  about  her  cat, 
Her  ribbons  and  all  that 

Sort  of  thing. 

These  foibles  are  a  blot, 
Still  she  never  can  do  what 

Is  not  nice  ; 

Such  as  quarrel,  and  give  slaps  — 
As  I've  known  her  get,  perhaps, 

Once  or  twice. 

The  spells  that  draw  her  soul 
Are  subtle  —  sad  or  droll  : 

She  can  show 
That  virtuose  whim 
Which  consecrates  our  dim 

Long-ago. 


144  (BertruOe 

A  love  that  is  not  sham 

For  Stothard,  Blake,  and  Lamb  ; 

And  I  've  known 
Cordelia's  sad  eyes 
Cause  angel-tears  to  rise 

In  her  own. 

Her  gentle  spirit  yearns 

When  she  reads  of  Robin  Burns  ; — 

Luckless  Bard, 

Had  she  blossom'd  in  thy  time, 
Oh,  how  rare  had  been  the  rhyme 
— And  reward  ! 

FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON. 
From  "  Geraldine." 


GERTRUDE. 

1 T  seemed  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  influence 

had 
On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their 

own 

Inspired  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 
That   seemed  to  love  whate'er  they  looked 

upon  ; 
Whether    with    Hebe's    mirth    her   features 

shone, 


(BertruDe  145 

Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 
(As  if  for  heavenly  musing  meant  alone  ; ) 
Yet  so  becomingly  th'  expression  past, 
That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  the 
last. 

Nor  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvanian  home, 
With  all  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace, 
And  fields  that  were  a  luxury  to  roam, 
Lost  on  the  soul  that,  looked  from  such  a  face  ! 
Enthusiast  of  the  woods  !  when  years  apace 
Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's 

zone, 

The  sunrise  path,  at  morn,  I  see  thee  trace 
To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrown, 
And  joy  to  breath  the  groves,  romantic  and 
alone. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 
From  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming." 


GERTRUDE. 

A  S  Gertrude  skipt  from  babe  to  girl, 

Her  necklace  lengthened,  pearl  by  pearl : 
Year  after  year  it  grew,  and  grew, 
For  every  birthday  gave  her  two. 
Her  neck  is  lovely, — soft  and  fair, 
And  now  her  necklace  glimmers  there. 


146 


So  cradled,  let  it  fall  and  rise, 
And  all  her  graces  symbolize. 
Perchance  this  pearl,  without  a  speck, 
Once  was  as  warm  on  Sappho's  neck  ; 
Where  are  the  happy,  twilight  pearls 
That  braided  Beatrice's  curls  ? 

Is  Gerty  loved  ?    Is  Gerty  loth  ? 
Or,  if  she  's  either,  is  she  both  ? 
She  's  fancy  free,  but  sweeter  far 
Than  many  plighted  maidens  are  ! 
Will  Gerty  smile  us  all  away, 
And  still  be  Gerty  ?     Who  can  say? 

But  let  her  wear  her  Precious  Toy, 
And  I  '11  rejoice  to  see  her  joy  : 
Her  bauble's  only  one  degree 
Less  frail,  less  fugitive  than  we, 
For  time,  ere  long,  will  snap  the  skein, 
And  scatter  all  her  pearls  again. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON. 
Gertrude's  Necklace." 


GLADYS. 

\A7HEN  Gladys  treads  the  minuet 
With  roses  in  her  hair  of  jet, 
Methinks  no  flower  that  ever  blows 
Is  half  so  lovely  as  the  rose. 


(Brace  147 

In  football  days  she  's  wont  to  wear 
Chrysanthemums,  and  then  I  swear, 
"  No  flower  can  be  more  rich  and  gay 
Than  that  fair  Gladys  wears  to-day." 

And  when  she  kneels  with  humble  air 
And  murmurs  low  her  Lenten  prayer, 
With  purple  violets  on  her  breast, 
Why,  then  I  'm  sure  I  like  them  best. 

But  if  for  me  she  '11  wreathe  her  hair 
With  orange  blossoms,  pure  and  fair, 
I  '11  prize,  till  stars  shall  cease  to  shine, 
The  blooms  which  make  sweet  Gladys  mine. 

DIXIE  WOLCOTT. 
'My  Favorite." 


GRACE. 

I  KNOW  not   what,    but  when   she  lifts  her 
hand 

To  point  a  flower's  perfection,  with  "But  see  ! 

How  exquisite  !  "  the  blossom  magically 
Assumes  a  rare,  new  fragrance,  as  by  wand, 
And  all  the  quicken'd  sense  is  forthwith  fann'd 

With  wave  on  wave  of  Eden  fragraucy. 
A  subtlety — we  may  not  understand — 

Past  painter's  brush,  past  poet's  minstrelsy. 

ORELIA  KEY  BELL. 


148  <5racta 

GRACIA. 

JVJ  AY,   nay,    Antonio !     nay,  thou    shall    not 
blame  her, 

My  Gracia,  who  hath  so  deserted  me. 
Thou  art  my  friend  ;  but  if  thou  dost  defame  her 

I  shall  not  hesitate  to  challenge  thee. 

"  Curse  and  forget  her  ?  "  so  I  might  another 
One  not  so  bounteous  natured  or  so  fair  ; 

But  she,  Antonio,  she  was  like  no  other — 
I  curse  her  not,  because  she  was  so  rare. 

She  was  made  out  of  laughter  and  sweet  kisses  ; 

Not  blood,   but  sunshine,  through  her  blue 

veins  ran. 
Her  soul  spilled  over  with  its  wealth  of  blisses — 

She  was  too  great  for  loving  but  a  man. 

None  but  a  god  could  keep  so  rare  a  creature — 
I  blame  her  not  for  her  inconstancy  ; 

When  I  recall  each  radiant  smile  and  feature, 
I  wonder  she  so  long  was  true  to  me. 

Call  her  not  false  or  fickle.     I,  who  love  her, 
Do  hold  her  not  unlike  the  royal  sun, 

That,  all  unmated,  roams  the  wide  world  over 
And  lights  all  worlds,  but  lingers  not  with 
one. 


Gretcben  149 

If  she  were  less  a  goddess,  more  a  woman, 
And  so  had  dallied  for  a  time  with  me, 

And  then  had  left  me,  I,  who  am  but  human, 
Would  slay  her,  and  her  newer  love,  may  be. 

But  since  she  seeks  Apollo,  or  another 

Of  those  lost  gods  (and  seeks  him  all  in  vain), 

And  has  loved  me  as  well  as  any  other 

Of  her  men-loves,  why,  I  do  not  complain. 
ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 


GRETCHEN. 

*OY  Charmer,  often  watched,  and  long, 
"^     Come  fill  my  glass  with  wine  ; 
You  cannot  speak  our  English  tongue, 
Nor  know  I  aught  of  thine. 

Yet  whisper  Beauty's  eyes  to  me 
The  sweetest  English  spoken, 

A  tender,  wistful  melody — 
My  heart  is  almost  broken. 

Fair  Gretchen,  fill  my  glass  with  wine, 

And  whisper  me  again 
The  language  of  your  eyes  divine, 

Its  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

WILLIAM  T.  WASHBURN. 


iso  ©uineverc 

GUINEVERE 

C  HE  seemed  a  part  of  joyous  Spring  ; 

A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 
Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 
Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 
In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 
Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set ; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 
As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  looked  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 
From  "  Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere." 


<3wenDal(ne  151 

GWEND  ALINE. 

D  LITHE  was  the  minstrel,  and  bright  was  his 

eye, 

It  had  but  one  fault — it  was  looking  too  high  : 
And  oft  as  he  pass'd  by  the  ivy- clad  tower, 
His  glance  was  uprais'd  to  fair  Gwendaline's 

bow'r ; 

He  gaz'd  at  her  casement,  tho'  oft  half  afraid, 
Lest  his  eye  might  encounter  the  proud  noble 

maid, 

For  he  dar'd  not  to  venture  that  she  should  per- 
ceive 

What  he  trembled  to  trust  his  own  heart  to 
believe. 

O,  blame  not  the  minstrel,   if  sometimes  he 

prove 

Too  freely,  too  rashly,  the  victim  of  love — 
The  bosom  will  warm,  as  the  love-tale  he  sings, 
And  heart  answer  harp  in  the  deep-throbbing 

strings  ! 
And,  O,  how  it  throbbed  'neath  his  tremulous 

hand, 

As  the  love-tale  he  sang  at  his  lady's  command, 
So  lovely  while   listening — O,   who    that   had 

seen, 
Could  blame  him  for  loving  the  bright  Gwen- 

daline  ? 


But  what  means  the  pomp  of  that  gay  caval- 
cade? 
'T  is  an  earl,  in  his  pride,  claims  the  hand  of 

the  maid  ; 

Away  from  the  castle  is  Gwendaline  borne, 
And  dark  is  the  brow  of  the  minstrel  forlorn  ; 
But  darker  the  myst'ry  that  shrouded  his  way, 
For  ne'er  was  he  traced  from  that  sad  festal 

day. 

One  relic  alone  of  the  minstrel  was  seen, 
'T  was  his  harp,  in  the  bower  of  the  fair  Gwen- 
daline ! 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 
"The  Fair  Gwendaline." 


HAIDEE. 

OER  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair ; 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were 

rolled 
In  braids  behind  ;    and  though  her  stature 

were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reached  her  heels  ;  and  in  her  air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  com- 
mand, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 


TfoaiDee  153 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same 
hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction  ;  for  when  to  the  view 

Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 
Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew  : 

'T  is  as  the  snake  late  coiled,  who  pours  his 
length, 

And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength. 

• 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low  ;  her  cheek's  pure 
dye, 

Like  twilight,  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun  ; 
Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips  !  that  make  us  sigh 

Ever  to  have  seen  such  ;  for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors  when  all 's  done — 
I  've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

LORD  BYRON. 
From  "  Don  Juan,"  Canto  ii. 


154  Ibannab 

A 

HANNAH. 

A   SPRING  o'erhung  with  many  a  flower, 

The  gray  sand  dancing  in  its  bed, 
Embanked  beneath  a  hawthorn  bower, 

Sent  forth  its  waters  near  my  head. 
A  rosy  lass  approached  my  view  ; 

I  caught  her  blue  eyes'  modest  beam  ; 
The  stranger  nodded  "  How-d'ye-do  ?  " 
And  leaped  across  the  infant  stream. 

The  water  heedless  passed  away  ; 

With  me  her  glowing  image  stayed  ; 
I  strove,  from  that  auspicious  day, 

To  meet  and  bless  the  lovely  maid. 
I  met  her  where  beneath  our  feet 

Through  downy  moss  the  wild  thyme  grew  ; 
Nor  moss  elastic,  flowers  though  sweet, 

Matched  Hannah's  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

I  met  her  where  the  dark  woods  wave, 

And  shaded  verdure  skirts  the  plain ; 
And  when  the  pale  moon  rising  gave 

New  glories  to  her  rising  train. 
From  her  sweet  cot  upon  the  moor, 

Our  plighted  vows  to  heaven  are  flown  ; 
Truth  made  me  welcome  at  her  door, 

And  rosy  Hannah  is  my  own. 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 
"Rosy  Hannah." 


tmrriet  155 

s 

HARRIET. 

\X7HOSE  is  the  love  that,  gleaming  through 
V*      the  world, 

Wards  off  the  poisonous  arrow  of  its  scorn  ? 
Whose  is  the  warm  and  partial  praise, 
Virtue's  most  sweet  reward  ? 

Beneath  whose  looks  did  my  reviving  soul 
Riper  in  truth  and  virtuous  daring  grow  ? 
Whose  eyes  have  I  gazed  fondly  on, 
And  love  mankind  the  more  ? 

Harriet !  on  thine  : — thou  wert  my  purer  mind ; 
Thou  wert  the  inspiration  of  my  song, 
Thine  are  these  early  wilding  flowers, 
Though  garlanded  by  me. 

Then  press  into  thy  breast  this  pledge  of  love  ; 
And  know,  though  time  may  change  and  years 

may  roll, 

Each  floweret  gathered  in  my  heart 
It  consecrates  to  thine. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 
"To  Harriet." 


156  Darriett 

HARRIETT. 

LJ  ERE  at  the  halfway  House  of  Life  I  linger, 
Worn    with    the    way,    a    weary-hearted 
singer, 

Resting  a  little  space  ; 

And  lo  !  the  good  God  sends  me,  as  a  token 
Of  peace  and   blessing   (else   my   heart  were 
broken), 

The  sunbeam  of  thy  face. 

My  fear  falls  from  me  like  a  garment ;  slowly 
New  strength  returns  upon  me,  calm  and  holy  ; 

I  kneel,  and  I  atone — 

Thy  hand  is  clasped  in  mine — we  lean  together — 
Henceforward,    through    the   sad    or    shining 
weather, 

I  shall  not  walk  alone. 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


HEBE. 

CAIR  Hebe  I  left,  with  a  cautious  design, 

To  escape  from  her  charms,  and  to  drown 

Love  in  wine  ; 

I  tried  it,  but  found,  when  I  came  to  depart, 
The  wine  in  my  head,  but  still  Love  in  my 

heart. 


l>elen  157 

I  repair'd  to  my  Reason,  entreating  her  aid, 
Who  paused  on  my  case,  and  each  circumstance 

weigh 'd  : 
Then    gravely   pronounced,    in   return   to   my 

prayer, 
That  Hebe  was  fairest  of  all  that  were  fair. 

That  's  a  truth,  replied  I,  I  've  no  need  to  be 

taught, 

I  came  for  your  counsel  to  find  out  a  fault ; 
If  that  's   all,    quoth   Reason,    return    as    you 

came, 
For  to  find  fault  with  Hebe  would  forfeit  my 

name. 

EARL  OF  DE  LA  WARRE. 


HELEN. 

LJ  ELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently  o'er  a  perfumed  sea 

The  weary,  way-worn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 


158  Delen 

Lo  !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand  ! 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 

Ah  !  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land  ! 

EDGAR.  ALLAN  POE. 


HELEN. 

C^)N  Helen's  cheek  was  once  a  glow, 

An  arc  of  dreamland  glimpsed  below, 
A  silver-purpled,  peachy  beauty 
In  tidal  swayings  to  and  fro. 

O  flush  of  youth  !  outvelveting 
The  butterfly's  Arabian  wing  ! 

The  very  argosies  of  morning 
Bear  not  from  Heaven  so  rich  a  thing. 

On  Helen's  cheek  a  springtide  day, 
Fragile  and  wonderful  it  lay  ; 

From  Helen's  cheek  these  twenty  summers 
Child-lips  have  kissed  the  bloom  away. 

Nay,  Time  !  record  it  not  so  fast, 
The  reign  of  roses  overpast ; 

All  victor-pomps  of  theirs  encircle 
A  loyal  woman  to  the  last. 


159 


So  true  of  speech,  of  soul  so  free, 
Of  such  a  mellowed  blood  is  she, 

That  girlhood's  vision,  long  evanished, 
Rounds  never  to  a  memory. 

No  loss  in  her  love's  self  descries  ! 
Up-trembling  to  adoring  eyes, 

The  sweet  mirage  of  youth  and  beauty 
On  Helen's  cheek  forever  lies. 

IvOUiSE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 
1  On  Helen's  Cheek." 


HELENS. 

JVAORE  closely  than  the  clinging  vine 

About  the  wedded  tree, 
Clasp  thou  thine  arms,  ah,  mistress  mine  ! 

About  the  heart  of  me. 
Or  seern  to  sleep,  and  stoop  your  face 

Soft  on  my  sleeping  eyes, 
Breathe  in  your  life,  your  heart,  your  grace, 

Through  me,  in  kissing  wise. 
Bow  down,  bow  down  your  face,  I  pray, 

To  me,  that  swoon  to  death, 
Breathe  back  the  life  you  kissed  away, 

Breathe  back  your  kissing  breath. 
So  by  your  eyes  I  swear  and  say, 

My  mighty  oath  and  sure. 


160  Ibermionc 

From  your  kind  arms  no  maiden  may 

My  loving  heart  allure. 
I  '11  bear  your  yoke,  that  's  light  enough, 

And  to  the  Elysiau  plain, 
When  we  are  dead  of  love,  my  love, 

One  boat  shall  bear  us  twain. 
They  '11  flock  around  you,  fleet  and  fair, 

All  true  loves  that  have  been, 
And  you  of  all  the  shadows  there, 

Shall  be  the  shadow  queen. 
Ah,  shadow-loves  and  shadow-lips  ! 

Ah,  while  'tis  called  to-day, 
Love  me,  my  love,  for  summer  slips, 

And  August  ebbs  away. 

ANDREW  LANG 
"X  I<a  Belle  Helfcne"  (after  Ronsard). 


HERMIONE. 

'THOU  hast  beauty  bright  and  fair, 

Manner  noble,  aspect  free, 
Eyes  that  are  untouched  by  care  : 
What  then  do  we  ask  from  thee  ? 
Hcrmione,  Hermione  ! 

Thou  hast  reason  quick  and  strong 
Wit  that  envious  men  admire, 


161 


And  a  voice,  itself  a  song  ! 
What  then  can  we  still  desire  ? 
Hermione^  Hermione  ! 

Something  thou  dost  want,  O  queen  ! 

(As  the  gold  doth  ask  alloy), 

Tears,  —  amidst  thy  laughter  seen, 

Pity,  —  mingling  with  thy  joy. 

This  is  all  we  ask,  from  thee> 
Hermione,  Hermione! 

BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER. 


HERMIONE. 

\X7 HEREVER  I  wander,  up  and  about, 

This  is  the  puzzle  I  can't  make  out — 
Because  I  care  little  for  books,  no  doubt : 

I  have  a  wife,  and  she  is  wise, 

Deep  in  philosophy,  strong  in  Greek, 
Spectacles  shadow  her  pretty  eyes, 

Coteries  rustle  to  hear  her  speak  ; 
She  writes  a  little — for  love,  not  fame  ; 
Has  published  a  book  with  a  dreary  name  ; 

And  yet  (God  bless  her  !)  is  mild  and  meek. 
And  how  I  happened  to  woo  and  wed 

A  wife  so  pretty  and  wise  withal, 
Is  part  of  the  puzzle  that  fills  my  head — 


162  t)ecmione 

Plagues  me  at  daytime,  racks  me  in  bed, 

Haunts  me  and  makes  me  appear  so  small, 
The  only  answer  that  I  can  see 
Is — I  could  not  have  married  Hermione 
(That  is  her  fine  wise  name),  but  she 
Stooped  in  her  wisdom  and  married  me, 

For  I  am  a  fellow  of  no  degree, 

Given  to  romping  and  jollity  ; 

The  Latin  they  thrashed  into  me  at  school 

The  world  and  its  fights  have  thrashed  away  ; 
At  figures  alone  I  am  no  fool, 

And  in  city  circles  I  say  my  say. 
But  I  am  a  dunce  at  twenty-nine, 
And  the  kind  of  study  that  I  think  fine, 
Is  a  chapter  of  Dickens,  a  sheet  of  the  Times, 

When  I  lounge,  after  work,  in  my  easy  chair  ; 
Punch  for  humor  and  Praed  for  rhymes, 

And  the  butterfly  mots  blown  here  and  there 

By  the  idle  breath  of  the  social  air. 
A  little  French  is  my  only  gift, 
Wherewith  at  times  I  can  make  a  shift, 
Guessing  at  meanings  to  flutter  over 
A  filagree  tale  in  a  paper  cover. 

Hermione',  my  Hermione'  ! 

What  could  your  wisdom  perceive  in  me? 
And  Hermione',  my  Hermione  ! 

How  does  it  happen  at  all  that  we 

Love  one  another  so  utterly  ? 


f>ermion£  163 

Well,  I  have  a  bright-eyed  boy  or  two, 

A  darling  who  cries  with  lung  and  tongue, 

about 
As  fine  a  fellow,  I  swear  to  you, 

As  ever  poet  of  sentiment  sung  about ! 
And  my  lady-wife,  with  serious  eyes, 

Brightens  and  lightens  when  he  is  nigh, 
And  looks,  although  she  is  deep  and  wise, 

As  foolish  and  happy  as  he  or  I  ! 
And  I  have  the  courage  just  then,  you  see, 
To  kiss  the  lips  of  Hermion£ — 
Those  learned  lips  that  the  learned  praise — 
And  to  clasp  her  close  as  in  sillier  days  ; 

To  talk  and  joke  in  a  frolic  vein, 
To  tell  her  my  stories  of  things  and  men  ; 

And  it  never  strikes  me  that  I  'm  profane, 

For  she  laughs,  and  blushes,  and  kisses  again, 
And,  presto  !  fly  !  goes  her  wisdom  then  ! 
For  boy  claps  hands  and  is  up  on  her  breast, 

Roaring  to  see  her  so  bright  with  mirth, 
And  I  know  she  deems  me  (oh,  the  jest !) 

The  cleverest  fellow  on  all  the  earth  ! 

And  Hermione1,  my  Hermione", 
Nurses  her  boy  and  defers  to  me  ; 
Does  not  seem  to  see  I  'm  small — 
Even  to  think  me  a  dunce  at  all ! 
And  wherever  I  wander,  up  and  about, 
Here  is  the  puzzle  I  can't  make  out — 
That  Hermione,  my  Hermione", 


164  Ibester 

In  spite  of  her  Greek  and  philosophy, 
When  sporting  at  night  with  her  boy  and  me, 
Seems  sweeter  and  wiser,  I  assever — 
Sweeter  and  wiser,  and  far  more  clever, 
And  makes  me  feel  more  foolish  than  ever, 
Through  her  childish,  girlish,  joyous  grace, 
And  the  silly  pride  in  her  learned  face  ! 

That  is  the  puzzle  I  can't  make  out — 
Because  I  care  little  for  books,  no  doubt ; 
But  the  puzzle  is  pleasant,  I  know  not  why  ; 

For  whenever  I  think  of  it,  night  or  morn, 
I  thank  my  God  she  is  wise,  and  I 

The  happiest  fool  that  was  ever  born  ! 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 
"  Hermione'  ;  or,  Differences  Adjusted." 


HESTER. 

of  cheek  and  grave  of  gown, 
A  maid  of  whom  this  world  has  dearth, 
She  walks  the  streets  of  that  old  town, 
And  makes  them  mellow  with  her  mirth. 

The  hoary  roofs  grow  young  with  cheer, 
The  windows  brighten  pane  by  pane  ; 
And  haunted  by  her  laughter  dear, 
To  bud  the  shrivelled  boughs  are  fain. 


Ibettg  165 

The  painted  ladies  of  the  age, 
Flaunt  past  her  over-sweet  with  musk  ; 
But  she  trips  on  with  scent  of  sage 
Blown  out  some  yard  at  fall  of  dusk. 

These  painted  dames  of  Hester's  time — 
When  they  are  laid  by  churchyard  doors, 
She  will  laugh  on  in  English  rhyme, 
And  she  be  known  on  alien  shores. 

I/IZETTE  WOOUWORTH  REESE. 


HETTY. 

DEAUTIFUL,  distracting  Hetty, 

This  was  how  it  come  to  be 
As  we  strolled  upon  the  jetty. 

I  had  danced  three  times  with  Netty, 

She  had  flirted  with  Dobree, 
Beautiful,  distracting  Hetty. 

I  was  humming  Donizetti, 

Hurt  was  I,  and  angry  she, 
As  we  strolled  upon  the  jetty. 

As  she  levelled  her  Negretti 

With  provoking  nicety, 
Beautiful,  distracting  Hetty. 


Suddenly  she  flashed  a  pretty, 

Half-defiant  glance  at  me, 
As  we  strolled  upon  the  jetty. 

And  our  quarrel  seemed  so  petty, 
By  the  grandeur  of  the  sea  ! 
Beautiful,  distracting  Hetty, 
As  we  strolled  upon  the  jetty. 

COSMO  MONKHOUSE. 


HILDEGARDE. 

VOUNG  Hildegarde,  beside  her  cottage  door, 
Sat  at  her  spinning  when  the  sun  was  low, 

The  shadows  fell  athwart  the  sanded  floor, 
The  long  sun  lances  set  the  hills  aglow, 
While  twilight  soft  wrapt  all  the  vale  below. 

The  little  maid  her  humming  wheel  forgets  ; 

Her  blue  eyes  wander  from  the  verdant  sward, 
Flecked  with  her  own  sweet  mountain  violets, 
Swept  by  the  breeze,  with  sun  and  shadow 

barred, 

Far  up  the  mountain  side,  all  seamed  and 
scarred. 

Old  grandsire  Herman  left  his  easy  chair, 
To  come  and  stand  within  the  fading  light, 


167 


He  murmured  softly,  "  Earth  is  very  fair  ; 
How  grand  the  day  !  how  beautiful  the  night  ! 
How  dear  it  all  is  to  my  failing  sight." 

Came  to  these  two,  as  from  the  cool  fresh  ground, 
The  ringing  of  the  convent  curfew  bell  ; 

And  echo  caught  it  ;  waves  of  silvery  sound 
Rose  to  the  heights  with  joyous  peal  and  swell, 
Then  downward  swung  to  die  within  the  dell. 

They   stood   and   watched   the   sunset's   dying 

gleam 

That  lingered  on  the  blue  horizon's  rim  ; 
The  convent  walls,  like  walls  seen  in  a  dream, 
Stood  half  defined,  down  in  the  valley  dim, 
And   faintly  rose  the  nun's  sweet  evening 
hymn. 

Then  Hildegarde,  with  eyes  brim-full  of  peace, 
Folds  her  brown  hands,  a  smile  is  on  her  lips, 

"Praise  God,  O  earth,  for  all  thy  fair  increase  ; 
Praise  Him,  each  one  who  of  her  nectar  sips, 
And  praise  Him,  ye,  down  on  the  sea  in  ships  !  " 

Too  joj'ful  seemed  the  girl  to  kneel  in  prayer, 
She  stood  with  face  uplifted  to  the  skies  ; 

She  heard  a  step,  and  turned  with  kindly  care, 
Yet  with  the  enraptured  look  within  her  eyes, 
Like  one  who'd  caught  a  glimpse  of  paradise. 


i68 


A  black  -robed  sister  there  beside  her  stood, 
Weary  with  toiling  up  the  mountain  side, 

For  some  poor  suffering  fellow-creature's  good  : 
"Ah,    Hildegarde,"    she    said,    and    saying 

sighed, 
"  And  have  I  come,  again  to  be  denied? 

"  Will  you  not  go  with  me  from  all  these  toils, 

That  nourish  but  the  sinful  flesh  alone  ? 
While  the  worn  spirit  frets  with  hurts  and  soils, 
And  hearts  grow  colder  than  the  mountain 

stone  ; 

Come,  child,  find  peace  that  you  have  never 
known." 

"  Nay,  Sister  Agnes,"  Hildegarde  replied, 
"What  is  there  here  to  break  our  quietude? 

Peace  dwells  upon  this  sunny  mountain  side, 
And  in   our  dear  old  cot,  though  plain  and 

rude, 
None  but  our  friends  have  ever  dared  intrude. 

"I   could  not  worship   God  with  beads    and 

books  ; 

I  could  not  pray  shut  in  by  four  stone  walls  ; 
I  want  the  music  of  the  running  brooks  ; 
The  whispering  leaves  ;  the  birds,  with  wild 

sweet  calls  ; 
The  humming  bees,  and  babbling  waterfalls. 


169 


"  Each  summer  day  seems  brighter  than  the 

last; 
Naught    is    unkind  ;     the    fickle,    wand'ring 

breeze 

Brings  odors  of  the  fields  that  it  has  passed, 
And  friends  look  out  from  all  the  gray  old 

trees  ;  — 
What  could  be  purer,  truer  than  are  these? 

"Here  grow  my  vines,  and  here  I  've  planted 

flowers  ; 

And  here  I  feed  the  merry  wild-wood  birds 
That  sing  to  me  through  many  happy  hours  ; 
Adown  yon  path  go  all  the  flocks  and  herds  ; 
They   wait,    sometimes,   to  hear  my   kindly 
words. 

"And,  like  a  guardian  angel,  strong  to  save, 
See  yonder  mound,    warm  in   the    sunset's 

glow; 
You   know   it  well,   my    fair  young  mother's 

grave  ; 
You  know  how   brightly   there   the   flowers 

blow, 
All  for  the  precious  heart  that  lies  below. 

"And  who  would  my  dear  grandsire  soothe  and 

cheer  ? 
My  soldier  father,  lying  dead  in  Spain, 


170 

Was  all  he  had.     My  duty,  sure  is  here  ; 
And  Sister  Agnes,  I  would  not  complain 
If  I  for  gandsire  bore  a  world  of  pain." 

"  Yes,  Hildegarde,  but  Herman  's  old,  and  when 
He  shall  no  longer  need  your  gentle  care, 

Ah,  child,  I  daily  pray  for  you,  that  then, 

For  every  gleam  of  gold  in  your  brown  hair, 
There  may  not  come  a  pang  of  deep  despair." 

Then  Hildegarde,  with  cheek  and  eye  alight 
With  that  strange  fire  ne'er  found  on  land  nor 

sea, 

Said  :  "  Sister  Agnes,  every  morn  and  night, 
A  shepherd  lad  waits  by  yon  ancient  tree, 
To  speak  to  grandsire  ;  and — he  's — kind — to 
— me." 

MARGARET  HOLMES  BATES. 


HINDA. 

/^vH  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  Beauty,  curtained  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, — 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea 


t)onorta  171 

Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 
Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity. 

So,  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 

Like  holy  mysteries,  lain  enshrined. 

And  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 
To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er  ! — 

Like  those  who,  all  at  once,  discover 
In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 
Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 

And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 

No  lip  had  ever  breathed  but  theirs. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 
From  "  L,alla  Rookh." 


HONORIA. 

I  WATCHED  her  face,  suspecting  germs 
Of  love  :  her  farewell  showed  me  plain 
She  loved,  on  the  majestic  terms 

That  she  should  not  be  loved  again. 
She  was  all  mildness  ;  yet  't  was  writ 

Upon  her  beauty  legibly, 
"  He  that  's  for  heaven  itself  unfit, 
Let  him  not  hope  to  merit  me." 


And  though  her  charms  are  a  strong  law 
Compelling  all  men  to  admire, 


172  Ibonoria 

They  are  so  clad  with  lovely  awe, 

None  but  the  noble  dares  desire. 
He  who  would  seek  to  make  her  his, 

Will  comprehend  that  souls  of  grace 
Own  sweet  repulsion,  and  that  't  is 

The  quality  of  their  embrace, 
To  be  like  the  majestic  reach 

Of  coupled  suns,  that,  from  afar, 
Mingle  their  mutual  spheres,  while  each 

Circles  the  twin  obsequious  star  : 
And  in  the  warmth  of  hand  to  hand, 

Of  heart  to  heart,  he  '11  vow  to  note 
And  reverently  understand 

How  the  two  spirits  shine  remote  ; 
And  ne'er  to  numb  fine  honor's  nerve, 

Nor  let  sweet  awe  in  passion  melt, 
Nor  fail  by  courtesies  to  observe 

The  space  which  makes  attraction  felt ; 
Nor  cease  to  guard  lik^life  the  sense 

Which  tells  him  that  the  embrace  of  love 
Is  o'er  a  gulf  of  difference 

Love  cannot  sound,  nor  death  remove. 

COVENTRY  PATMOK.K. 
Prom  "  The  Angel  in  the  House." 


ffantbe  173 

IANTHE. 


you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
Like  little  ripples  down  a  sunny  river  ; 
Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 
Cut  down,  and'  up  again  as  blythe  as  ever. 
WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


IANTHE. 

M  OT  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been 

straying, 

Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  match- 
less deem'd  ; 

Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd  : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they 

beam'd — 

To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could 
they  speak  ? 

Ah  !  mayst  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  un beseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring, 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 


i?4  fantbe 

And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining  ! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disap- 
pears. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West ! — 't  is  well  for  me 

My  years  already  doubly  number  thine  ; 

My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 

And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine  ; 

Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline  ; 

Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall 
bleed, 

Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  as- 
sign 

To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed, 
But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest 
hours  decreed. 

Oh  !  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Gazelle's, 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 
Glance  o'er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly 

sigh, 

Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend  : 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord  ;  nor  question 

why 


HDa  175 

To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  commend, 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily 
blend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  intwined  ; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  lanthe  's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last ; 
My  days  once  numbered,  should  this  homage 

past 

Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire  : 
Though    more    than    Hope   can    claim,    could 
Friendship  less  require  ? 

LORD  BYB.ON. 
"  Dedication  of  Childe  Harold." 


IDA. 

A  LL  beauty  compass' d  in  a  female  form, 
The  Princess  ;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth  ;  such  eyes  were  in  her 

head, 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing  down 
From  over  her  arched  brows,  with  every  turn 
Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long  hands, 
And  to  her  feet. 


176  tlmogen 

My  princess,  O  my  princess  !  true  she  errs, 
But  in  her  own  grand  way  :  being  herself 
Three  times  more   noble   than  three-score  of 

men, 

She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else, 
And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 
To  blind  the  truth  and  me  :  for  her,  and  her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 
The  nectar ;  but — ah  she — whene'er  she  moves 
The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning  Sun. 

ALFRED  (!,ORD)  TENNYSOK 
From  "  The  Princess." 


IMOGEN. 

TACHIMO.     How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy 

bed  !     Fresh  lily  ! 

And  whiter  than  the  sheets  !  That  I  might  touch  ! 
.     .     .     'T  is  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus  :  The  flame  o'  the 

taper 
Bows  towards  her ;  and  would  under-peep  her 

lids, 

To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows,  white  and  azure,  laced 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 
From  "  Cymbelme." 


llmogene  177 

IMOGENS, 

'T'WO  laughing  little  eyes  of  brown 

I  've  often  seen, 
Like  gems  inlaid  upon  a  crown. 

Or  sunlight  sheen 
O'er  limpid,  rippling  waters  cast. 
And  ah  !  I  sigh  as  she  flits  past, 
And  feel  my  heart  pulsating  fast. 
Sweet  Imogene ! 

Two  dainty-fashioned  lips  of  red, 

With  pearls  between  ; 
While  rich,  dark  curls  adorn  her  head, 

And  catch  the  gleam 
Of  every  genial  Southern  sun 
That  sees  its  daily  course  begun, 
Shedding  its  lustrous  rays  upon 
Sweet  Imogene  ! 

A  pretty  figure  she  displays 

As  can  be  seen  ; 
For  beauty,  suppleness,  and  grace 

And  gentle  mien 
All  other  girls  she  quite  excels, 
And  yet  her  every  action  tells 
No  vanity  within  her  dwells — 
Sweet  Imogene  ! 


?8  Umperta 

With  practiced  skill  she  mounts  her  wheel, 

And  calm,  serene, 
She  hies  where  brooklets  softly  steal 

'Mid  sylvan  scene  ; 
Where  pipes  the  lark  his  roundelay, 
And  flowers  bloom  in  bright  array, 
'T  is  there  she  greets  the  virgin  day — 
Sweet  Imogene  ! 

And  as  I  watch  her  riding  by 

Fondly  I  ween, 
A  maid  more  fair  ne'er  met  my  eye — 

She  looks  a  queen  ! 
And  could  one  wish  be  given  me, 
That  I  my  captive  heart  might  free, 
Then  she  in  truth  my  queen  should  be — 
Sweet  Imogene  ! 

SIDNEY  WARREN  MASE. 
Sweet  Imogene." 


IMPERIA. 

A  LI/    pleasures    of   this    pleasant    Earth    be 
**    thine  ! 

Yea,  let  her  servants  fondly  press 
Unto  thy  feet, 

Bearing  all  sights   most  fair,  all  scents   most 
sweet : 


1Tna  179 

Spring,  playing  with  her  wreath  of  budded 
vine ; 

Summer,  with  stately  tress 

Prink'd  with  green  wheat-ears  and  the  white 
corn-bine  ; 

And  Autumn,  crown'd  from  the  yellow  forest- 
tree  ; 

— And  Winter,  in  his  dress 

Begemm'd  with  icicles,  from  snow  dead-white 

Shooting  their  wondrous  light ; 

These  be  thine  ever. 

THOMAS  BURBIDGE. 
From  "To  Imperia." 


INA. 

A    "LOVELY  fear,"  a  sweet  solicitude 

For  others'  grief  is  hers  ;  skilled  are  her 

fingers 

To  cool  with  dewy  flowers  the  front  of  care, 
Flattering  to  pleasant  tears  the  over-worn. 
She  lives  in  her  sweet  maidenhood,  untouched 
By    doubt,    distrust,    or    pain  ;    and    gives    to 

Heaven 

Her  heart,  to  earth  her  pity,  to  her  friends 
The  snow-fed  fountains  of  her  fresh  affections ; 
Seldom  she  weeps,  and  never  causes  tears  ; 
Her  looks  are  gentle,  and  her  voice  as  low    . 


As  morning  winds  that  spare    the   trembling 

dewdrops  ; 

Her  hand  is  lighter  than  a  young  bird's  wing. 
You  deem  her  undefended.     She  is  strong  ! 
A  glorious  Spirit  zoned  with  power  and  beauty  ! 
The  pure  are  always  strong  ;  for  they  possess 
Youth's  heaven-taught  lore,  and  Virtue's  might 

eterne : 

And,  as  the  ocean  in  the  flowers  of  oceau, 
So  God  within  them  dwells,  and  moves  around. 
AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


INEZ. 

/^\H,  saw  ye  not  fair  Inez  ? 

She  's  gone  into  the  west, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 
And  rob  the  world  of  rest  : 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Oh,  turn  again,  fair  Inez, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivalled  bright  ; 


181 


And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Inez, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whispered  thee  so  near  !  — 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Inez, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ; 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

—  If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 

Alas,  alas  !  fair  Inez, 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  music's  wrong, 


182  Unfelice 

In  sounds  that  sang  farewell,  farewell, 
To  her  you  've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Inez  ! 

That  vessel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 

THOMAS  HOOD. 
"Fair  Inez." 


INFEIJCE. 

(ON  HER  PICTURE.) 

|V/l  Y  Infelice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye, 

1    The  dimple  on  her  cheek  :  and  such  sweet 

skill 
Hath    from    the    cunning    workman's    pencil 

flown, 

These  lips  look  fresh  and  lively  as  her  own  ; 
Seeming  to  move  and  speak.     Alas  !  now  I  see 
The  reason  why  fond  women  love  to  buy 
Adulterate  complexion  :  here  't  is  read  : 
False  colors  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 


Hone  183 

Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks, 

Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes, 

Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue, 

Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence, 

In  her  white  bosom  ;  look,  a  painted  board 

Circumscribes  all !     Earth  can  no  bliss  afford  ; 

Nothing  of  her  but  this  !     This  cannot  speak  ; 

It  has  no  lap  for  rne  to  rest  upon  ; 

No  lip  worth  tasting.      Here  the  worms  will 

feed, 

As  in  her  coffin.     Hence,  then,  idle  art, 
True  love  's  best  pictured  in  a  true  love's  heart. 
Here  art  thou  drawn,  sweet  maid,  till  this  be 

dead, 

So  that  thou  livest  twice,  twice  art  buried. 
Thou  figure  of  my  friend,  lie  there  ! 

THOMAS  DEKKER. 
From  ' '  Dramas. ' ' 


IONE. 


C  WEETNESS,  Purity  and  Truth 

Are  the  handmaids  of  thy  youth  ; 
And  thy  friendship,  that  doth  last, 
Makes  the  future  as  the  past, 
And  about  the  present  throws 
All  the  perfume  of  the  rose. 


184  flrene 

Oh,  thy  smile  is  like  the  smiling 
Of  some  dream  at  morn  beguiling, 
All  the  senses  with  the  tender 
Glamour  hopes  to  memories  render  ; 
Noble,  fair  and  true  thou  art, 
And  all-golden  is  thy  heart. 

ROWLAND  B.  MAHANY. 


IRENE. 

T  I ERS  is  a  spirit  deep,  and  crystal-clear  ; 

Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies  ; 
Far  down  into  her  large  and  patient  eyes 
I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite, 
As,  in  the  mid-watch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  Love's  holy  light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh  free  ; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth  she 
An  Eden  where  the  snake  did  never  enter ; 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  center  ; 
So  that  no  influence  of  earth  can  stir 


Hrenc  185 

Her  steadfast  courage,  uor  can  take  away 

The  holy  peacefulness,  which,  night  and  day, 

Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

Most  gentle  is  she  ;  her  large  charity 
(An  all  unwitting,  childlike  gift  in  her) 
Not  freer  is  to  give  than  meek  to  bear  ; 
And,  though  herself  not  unacquaint  with  care, 
Hath  in  her  heart  wide  room  for  all  that  be, — 
Her  heart  that  hath  no  secrets  of  its  own, 
But  open  is  as  eglantine  full  blown. 
Cloudless  forever  is  her  brow  serene, 
Speaking    calm    hope    and    trust   within   her, 

whence 

Welleth  a  noiseless  spring  of  patience, 
That  keepeth  all  her  life  so  fresh,  so  green 
And  full  of  holiness,  that  every  look, 
The  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul  revealing, 
Unto  me  bringeth  blessing,  and  a  feeling 
As  when  I  read  in  God's  own  holy  book. 

A  graciousness  in  giving  that  doth  make 
The   small'st  gift  greatest,  and   a  sense   most 

meek 

Of  worthiness,  that  doth  not  fear  to  take 
From  others,  but  which  always  fears  to  speak 
Its  thanks  in  utterance,  for  the  giver's  sake  ;— 
The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Which  rests  instinctively  in  Heaven's  clear  law 


i86  IFrcne 

With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  depart 
From  its  own  steadfastness  ;  a  holy  awe 
For  holy  things, — not  those  which  men  call 

holy, 

But  such  as  are  revealed  to  the  eyes 
Of  a  true  woman's  soul  bent  down  and  lowly 
Before  the  face  of  daily  mysteries  ; — 
A  love  that  blossoms  soon,  but  ripens  slowly 
To  the  full  goldenness  of  fruitful  prime, 
Enduring  with  a  firmness  that  defies 
All  shallow  tricks  of  circumstance  and  time, 
By  a  sure  insight  knowing  where  to  cling, 
And  where  it  clingeth  never  withering  ; — 
These  are  Irene's  dowry,  which  no  fate 
Can  shake  from  their  serene,  deep-builded  state. 

In-seeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 
No  less  than  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 
With  fear  of  blame,  and  yet  which  everhasteneth 
To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the  wound, 
If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet  teaching 

makes, 

Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes  ; 
No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with  sidelong  eye, 
Hath  she  ;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 
That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side  ; 
For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie. 
Right  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit  came 
Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten  whence 


Hrene  187 

It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence, 
But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 
Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she  may  not 
Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthly  spot. 

Yet  sets  she  not  her  soul  so  steadily 
Above,  that  she  forgets  the  ties  of  earth, 
But  her  whole  thought  would  almost  seem  to  be 
How  to  make  glad  one  lowly  human  hearth  ; 
For  with  a  gentle  courage  she  doth  strive 
In  thought  and  word  and  feeling  so  to  live 
As  to  make  earth  next  heaven  ;  and  her  heart 
Herein  doth  show  its  most  exceeding  worth, 
That,  bearing  in  her  frailty  her  just  part. 
She  hath  not  shrunk  from  evils  of  this  life, 
But  hath  gone  camly  forth  into  the  strife, 
And  all  its  sins  and  sorrows  hath  withstood 
With  lofty  strength  of  patient  womanhood  : 
For  this  I  love  her  great  soul  more  than  all, 
That,  being  bound,  like  us,  with  earthly  thrall, 
She  walks  so  bright  and  heaven-like  therein, — 
Too  wise,  too  meek,  too  womanly  to  sin. 

Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds 

seen 

By  sailors,  tempest-tossed  upon  the  sea, 
Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  heavens  nigh, 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been, 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to  me  ; —   ' 


i88  flsa 

For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head, 
Earth's  noblest  thing,  a  Woman  perfected. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


ISA. 

/^\H  it  "s  bonnie,  bonnie  Isa, 
^^^     Whose  hair  is  like  the  craw, 
Her  e'e  the  dusky  violet, 

Her  neck  the  drifted  snaw  ; 
By  hills  an'  howes  where  Annan  rowes 

Are  lasses  bricht  an'  braw, 
But  my  bonnie,  bonnie  Isa 

Is  the  flower  amang  them  a'. 

I  lo'ed  her  in  the  summer  time, 

When  sweet  the  laverock  sang  ; 
And  mair  and  mair  in  winter  prime, 

When  nichts  were  dark  and  lang  : 
But  oh,  I  lo'ed  her  maist  o'  a' 

When,  nestlin'  near  tae  me, 
She  pined  awa — owre  plain  I  saw 

My  bonnie  bairn  wad  dee. 

She  took  my  hans  atween  her  ain, 
An'  held  them  tae  her  breast, 


flsabel  189 

An'  wi'  her  slender  fingers,  mine 

Sae  tenderly  caressed  ; 
Then  lookin'  up  sae  lovingly, 

While  tears  catn'  rinnin'  doon, 
Said,  "Willie— Willie,  think  o'  me! 

I  '11  be  in  heaven  soon." 

But  while  she  spak*  a  stranger  cam' — 

(Then  melted  was  the  snaw) — 
Said,  "  Isa  will  arise  again, 

An'  be  a  joy  tae  a'." 
An"  in  the  spring  our  Isa  rose, 

Slipped  aff  her  weary  pain  ; 
And  smilin'  bricht,  as  simmer  light, 

She  's  brocht  us  joy  again  ! 

FRANCIS  BENNOCH. 


ISABEL. 


i. 


C  YES  not  down-dropped  nor  over-bright,  but 

E        fed 

With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 


igo  Ifsabel 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translucent  fane 
Of  her  still  spirit ;  locks  not  wide-dispread, 

Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  head  ; 

Sweet  lips  whereou  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fix£d  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood. 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood,  and  pure  lowlihead. 


2. 


The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 

Error  from  crime ;  a  prudence  to  withhold ; 

The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart  ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws  ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride  ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey  ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 


Usabella 


The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon  ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 

With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother ; 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen 

quite. 

With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 
Of  rich   fruit-bunches  leaning  on   each 

other — 
Shadow  forth  thee  ; — the  world  hath  not 

another 

(Though  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten 'd  purity. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 


ISABELLA. 

LJ  EART  warm  as  summer,  fresh  as  spring, 

Gracious  as  autumn's  harvesting, 
Pure  as  the  winter's  snows  ;  as  white 
A  hand  as  lilies  in  sunlight ; 


ga  Isabella 

Eyes  glorious  as  a  midnight  star; 
Hair  shining  as  the  chestnuts  are  ; 
A  step  firm  and  majestical  ; 
A  voice  singing  and  musical  ; 
A  soft  expression,  kind  address  ; 
Tears  for  another's  heaviness  ; 
Bright  looks  ;  an  action  full  of  grace  ; 
A  perfect  form,  a  perfect  face  ; 
All  these  become  a  woman  well, 
And  these  had  I/ady  Isabel. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 
I,ady  Isabella." 


ISABELLA. 

\A7 HENCE  comes  my  love  ?  O  heart,  disclose  ; 
It  was   from   cheeks   that    shamed    the 

rose. 

From  lips  that  spoil  the  ruby's  praise, 
From  eyes  that  mock  the  diamond's  blaze  : 
Whence  comes  my  woe  ?  as  freely  own  ; 
Ah  me  !  't  was  from  a  heart  like  stone. 

The  blushing  cheek  speaks  modest  mind, 
The  lips  befitting  words  most  kind, 
The  eye  does  tempt  to  love's  desire, 
And  seems  to  say  't  is  Cupid's  fire  ; 


Jane  193 

Yet  all  so  fair  but  speak  my  moan, 
Sith  naught  doth  say  the  heart  of  stone. 

Why  thus,  my  love,  so  kind  bespeak 

Sweet  eye,  sweet  lip,  sweet  blushing  cheek — 

Yet  not  a  heart  to  save  my  pain  ? 

O  Venus,  take  thy  gifts  again  ! 

Make  not  so  fair  to  cause  our  moan, 

Or  make  a  heart  that 's  like  our  own. 

JOHN  HARRINGTON. 
'Lines  on  Isabella  Markham." 


JANE. 

UAR  you  must  go,  and  look  round  you  in  vain 
To  find  sweeter  girl  than  my  Highland  lass, 

Jane  ; 

Many  be  summers,  with  bird-notes  and  bowers, 
That  drop  in  her  pathway  their  innocent  flow- 
ers ; 

Ever,  with  Truth  setting  seal  on  her  brow, 
May  she  be  pure,  and  as  spotless  as  now  ! 

In  her  blue  eyes  beams  a  soul-kindled  light, 
The  lone  star  of  eve  is  less  placid  and  bright ; 
Tinged  is  her  lip  with  the  red  of  the  dawn  ; 


i94  3-anet 

Light  is  her  footsteps  as  tread  of  the  fawn  ; 
Beauty  has  painted  her  cheek  with  the  rose, 
Round  her  a  charm  her  own  loveliness  throws. 

In  the  rich  lines  of  that  beautiful  face, 
Painter  might  find  his  true  model  of  grace  ; 
I  know  that  her  heart  with  affection  is  warm, 
And  sculptor  might  study  the  mould   of  her 

form  : — 

Far  you  must  go  and  look  around  you  in  vain 
To  find  fairer  girl  than  my  Highland  lass,  Jane. 
W.  C.  H.  HOSMER. 


JANET. 

DEAUTIFUIyis  dear  Janet 

As  she  smiling  watches  me, 
Scarce  a  woman,  more  than  child, 
Modest — yet  a  trifle  wild  ; 
Surely  eye  has  never  met 
Picture  fair  as  she. 

Sunlight  falls  upon  her  head, 
Bathing  in  its  golden  light ; 
As  upon  an  angel's  face, 
I,  a  man  of  mortal  race, 


195 


Gaze  in  wonder  till  the  red 
Flashes  in  a  torrent  bright, 

O'er  her  cheeks  and  o'er  her  brow, 
From  pure  joy  and  happiness, 
For  she  loves  to  be  admired, 
And  but  lately  I  've  aspired 
To  be,  what  she  calls  me  now, 

Husband  —  nothing  more  —  nor  less. 

Singing  sweetly  to  my  soul, 
Hers  the  sweetest  voice  to  me, 

What  can  heaven  give  more,  I  cry, 
Oh  !  that  we  might  never  die, 
But,  as  endless  seasons  roll, 
Only  endless  love  foresee. 

Pure  in  woman's  purity, 
By  her  side  so  dark  I  seem  ; 
Calm  in  many  a  trying  hour, 
Yet  as  fragile  as  a  flower, 
Childhood  in  maturity  ; 
Angel  in  a  blessed  dream. 

Artful,  without  thought  of  harm, 
Careless,  without  need  of  care, 
Dark  as  even  are  her  eyes, 
And  their  lightest  glance  I  prize  ; 
Soft  the  curve  of  the  white  arm, 
Deepest  brown  her  wealth  of  hair. 


Jean 

i 

Kind  and  gentle,  when  I  feel 
Careworn  and  oppressed  with  ill, 
Fond  of  having  her  own  way, 
As  all  women  are,  they  say, 
To  my  heart  I  let  her  steal, 
And  she  always  has  her  will. 

Proud  as  queen  of  eastern  land, 
Very  proud  indeed  of  me  ; 
Scornfully  she  looks  on  all 
Who  themselves  her  lovers  call, 
Joying  in  the  blessed  band 
That  binds  her — yet  is  free. 

Very  rich  is  dear  Janet, 
Very  rich  I  now  am,  too  : 

All  your  wealth  is  this  poor  heart, 
And  all  mine — love,  do  not  start, 
I  'm  a  lowly  man  as  yet, 
But  so  rich  in  having  you. 

D  WILLARD  WATSON. 


JEAN. 

r")F  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 
The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 


197 


There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  bill  between  ; 
But  day  and  nigbt  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  an  fair  ; 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 
There  's  not  a  bonie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green  ; 
There  's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
•I  Love  My  Jean." 

JEAN. 

'  JVA  ANG  a'  the  lassies  young  and  braw, 

'     An'  fair  as  summer's  rosy  beam, 
There  's  ane  the  bonniest  o'  them  a' 

That  dwells  by  Manor's  mountain  stream. 
Oft  ha'e  I  gazed  on  her  sweet  face, 

An'  ilka  time  new  beauties  seen  ; 
For  aye  some  new  discover'd  grace 

Endears  to  me  my  lovely  Jean. 

An'  oh  !  to  list  her  ev'ning  sang, 
When  a'  alane  she  gently  strays 


198  Jennie 

The  yellow  waving  broom  amang, 

That  blooms  on  Manor's  flow'ry  braes — 

Her  voice  so  saft,  sae  sweet  and  clear, 
Afar  in  yonder  bower  sae  green, 

The  mavis  quits  her  lay  to  hear 
A  bonnier  sang  frae  lovely  Jean. 

But  it 's  no  her  peerless  face  nor  form, 

It  's  no  her  voice  sae  sweet  and  clear, 
That  keeps  my  love  to  her  sae  warm, 

An'  mak's  her  every  day  mair  dear  ; 
It's  just  the  beauties  o'  her  mind, 

Her  easy,  winning,  modest  mien, 
Her  truth  and  constancy,  which  bind 

My  heart  and  soul  to  lovely  Jean. 

PETER  ROGER. 
"  lyOvely  Jean." 


JENNIE. 

COME  men  affect  a  liking 

For  the  prim  in  face  and  mind, 
And  some  prefer  the  striking 

And  the  loud  in  womankind  ; 
Wee  Madge  is  wooed  of  many, 

And  buxom  Kate,  as  well, 
And  Jennie — charming  Jennie — 

Ah,  Jennie  does  n't  tell ! 


199 


What  eyes  so  bright  as  Daisy's, 

And  who  as  Maud  so  fair  ? 
Who  does  not  sing  the  praises 

Of  Lucy's  golden  hair  ? 
There  's  Sophie  —  she  is  witty, 

A  very  sprite  is  Nell, 
And  Susie  's,  oh,  so  pretty  — 

But  Jennie  does  n't  tell  ! 

And  now  for  my  confession  : 

Of  all  the  virtues  rare, 
I  argue  that  discretion 

Doth  most  beseem  the  fair. 
And  though  I  hear  the  many 

Extol  each  other  belle, 
I  —  I  pronounce  for  Jennie, 

For  Jennie  does  n't  tell  ! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


JENNY. 

JENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in  ; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in  : 
Say  I  'm  weary,  say  I  'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 


200 

Say  I  'm  growing  old,  but  add, 
Jenny  kissed  me. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 
"  Jenny  Kissed  Me." 


JESSIE. 

""THE  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Ben- 

lomond, 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o'er  the 

scene, 
While    lanely   I    stray    in    the    calm    simmer 

gloamin" 
To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dum- 

blane. 

How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  saft  faulding  blos- 
som, 

And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  mantle  o'  green  ; 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom, 
Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

She 's  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she 's  bonny  ; 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  ; 
And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  o'  feeling, 

Wha  'd  blight,  in  its  bloom,  the  sweet  flower 
o'  Dumblane. 


Joan  201 

Sing  on,   thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the 

e'ening, 
Thou  'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood 

glen  ; 

Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 
Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flower  of  Dum- 
blane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi'  my  Jessie, 

The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain  ; 

I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  could  ca'  my  dear  lassie, 

Till  charm'd  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o' 

Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o'  loftiest  gran- 
deur, 

Amidst  its  profusion  I  'd  languish  in  pain  ; 
And    reckon    as    naething    the    height    o'   its 

splendor, 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,   the   flower   o'    Dum- 
blane. 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 

"Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dumblane.'' 


JOAN. 

/^F  her  array  the  form  if  I  shall  write, 

Towards  her  golden  hair  and  rich  attire, 
In  fretwise  couchit  with  pearlis  white 


202 


And  great  balas  learning  as  the  fire. 
With  mony  ane  emeraut  and  fair  sapphire  ; 
And  on  her  head  a  chaplet  fresh  of  hue, 
Of  plumis  parted  red,  and  white,  and  blue. 

Full  of  quaking  spangis  bright  as  gold, 
Forged  of  shape  like  to  the  amorets, 
So  new,  so  fresh,  so  pleasant  to  behold, 
The  plumis  eke  like  to  the  flower  jonets, 
And  other  of  shape,  like  to  the  flower  jonets, 
And  above  all  this,  there  was,  well  I  wot, 
Beauty  enough  to  make  a  world  to  dote. 

About  her  neck,  white  as  the  fire  amail, 
A  goodly  chain  of  small  orfevory, 
Whereby  there  hung  a  ruby,  without  fail, 
Like  to  ane  heart  shapen  verily, 
That  as  a  spark  of  low,  so  wantonly 
Seemed  burning  upon  her  white  throat, 
Now  if  there  was  good  party,  God  it  wot. 

And  for  to  walk  that  fresh  May's  morrow, 
Ane  hook  she  had  upon  her  tissue  white, 
That  goodlier  had  not  been  seen  to-forow, 
As  I  suppose  ;  and  girt  she  was  alite, 
Thus  halfings  loose  for  haste,  to  such  delight 
It  was  to  see  her  youth  in  goodlihede, 
That  for  rudeness  to  speak  thereof  I  dread. 


3-oanna  203 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  with  humble  aport, 
Bounty,  richess,  and  womanly  feature, 
God  better  wot  than  my  pen  can  report  : 
Wisdom,  largess,  estate,  and  cunning  sure, 
In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 
In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 
That  Nature  might  no  more  her  child  avance  ! 

JAMES  I.  OF  SCOTLAND. 
From  "  The  King's  Quhair." 


JOANNA. 

A  MID  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 

The  time  of  early  youth  ;   and  there  you 

learned, 

From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 
The  living  Beings  by  your  own  fireside, 
With  such  a  strong  devotion  that  your  heart 
Is  slow  to  meet  the  sympathies  of  them 
Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 
And  make  dear  friendships  with  the  streams 

and  groves. 

Yet  we,  who  are  transgressors  in  this  kind, 
Dwelling  retired  in  our  simplicity 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  we  love  you  well, 
Joanna  !  and  I  guess,  since  you  have  been 
So  distant  from  us  now  for  two  long  years, 


204  Soeepbeta 

That  you  will  gladly  listen  to  discourse, 
However  trivial,  if  you  thence  be  taught 
That  they,  with  whom  you  once  were  happy, 

talk 
Familiarly  of  you  and  of  old  times. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


JOSEPHETA. 

/^  REAT  black  eyes  with  looks  so  tender 

That  they  seem,  almost,  to  weep  ; 
Hand  that 's  taper,  brown,  and  slender, 

Shades  them  peering  up  the  steep, 
From  the  "dobey  "  on  the  mesa, 
Where  the  sun  forever  shines, 
'Long  the  foothill,  where  the  gazer 
Sees  amid  the  tangled  vines 

And  the  crooked  manzanita, 
Su  Chiquita  ! 
L,a  bonita. 

There  's  a  little  Mexic  maiden, 
Golden  haired  and  eyes  of  blue, 

With  the  summer  flowers  laden 

Climbing  down  from  where  they  grew, 

Dusky-haired  and  dark -eyed  mother — 
Though  mayhap  the  question  's  bold — 


Sosepbine  205 

Whence  those  eyes  of  some  one  other, 
Whence  the  shining  locks  of  gold? 
Tell  rne,  handsome  Josepheta, 
OfChiquita, 
La  bonita. 


Ah  !  I  see  yon  caballero, 

Riding  thither  down  the  trail — 
Now  he  lifts  his  broad  sombrero, 
Shouts  the  Saxon's  hearty  hail, 
And  the  flax-haired  caballero 
Has  Chiquita's  eyes  of  blue. 
Shaded  by  his  slouch  sombrero — 
Pretty  answer  that  is,  too, 

For  the  handsome  Josepheta, 
And  Chiquita, 
La  bonita. 

WILL  VISSCHER. 


JOSEPHINE. 

"THERE  was  a  France,  there  was  a  queen, 

There  was  another  Josephine, 
Whose  gentle  love  and  tender  art 
Subdued  Napoleon's  soldier  heart. 


But  she  of  France  was  ne'er,  I  ween, 
Fairer  than  them — my  Josephine  ; 
To  storm  thy  heart  I  '11  boldly  plan — 
God  !  if  I  were  the  Corsican  ! 

ROBERT  LOVEMAN. 
My  Josephine." 


JOSEPHINE. 

'THERE  's  not  a  moment  of  my  life 

But  that  my  mem'ry,  fond  and  true, 
Like  some  lone  bird  that  seeks  its  mate 

Flies  on  the  wings  of  love  to  you. 
I  see  your  fair  and  faultless  form, 

In  all  my  dreams  your  face  is  seen  ; 
I  breathe  your  name  in  ev'ry  pray'r, 

My  own,  my  darling  Josephine. 

CHORUS. 

O  !  Josephine,  my  own  fair  queen, 
I  swear  by  heav'n  above  you 

My  heart  is  true,  sweet  girl,  to  you, 
Josephine,  I  love  you. 

O  !  when  I  see  your  soul-lit  eyes 
In  all  their  beauty  on  me  shine, 


JuDitb  207 

I  feel  as  if  some  angel  fair 

Had  come  to  give  her  smiles  for  mine. 
But  when  our  lips  give  kiss  for  kiss, 

And  life  is  happy  and  serene, 
All  earth  becomes  a  Heaven  then, 

And  you  're  its  angel,  Josephine. 

WILL  S.  HAYS. 
I  Love  You,  Josephine." 


JUDITH. 

\A7HEN    she  had   gained  her  chamber  she 

threw  off 

The  livery  of  sorrow  for  her  lord, 
The  cruel  sackcloth  that  begirt  her  limbs, 
And  from  those  ashen  colors  issuing  forth, 
Seemed  like  a  golden  butterfly  new-slipt 
From  its  dull  chrysalis.     Then,  after  bath, 
She  braided  in  the  darkness  of  her  hair 
A  thread  of  opals  ;  on  her  rounded  breast 
Spilt  precious  ointment ;  and  put  on  the  robes 
Whose  rustling  made  her  pause,  half-garmented, 
To  dream  a  moment  of  her  bridal  morn. 
Of  snow-white  silk  stuff  were  her  robes,  and  rich 
With  delicate  branch-work,  silver-frosted  star, 
And  many  a  broidered  lily-of-the  vale. 


208 


These  things  became  her  as  the  scent  the  rose, 
For  fairest  things  are  beauty's  natural  dower. 
The  sun  that  through  the  jealous  casement  stole 
Fawned  ou  the  Hebrew  woman  as  she  stood, 
Toyed  with  the  oval  pendant  at  her  ear, 
And,  like  a  lover,  stealing  to  her  lips 
Taught  them  a  deeper  crimson  ;  then  slipt  down 
The  tremulous  lilies  to  the  sandal  straps 
That  bound  her  snowy  ankles. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 
From  "Judith." 


JUDITH. 

f~\  HER  eyes  are  amber-fine — 

Dark  and  deep  as  wells  of  wine, 
While  her  smile  is  like  the  noon 
Splendor  of  a  day  of  June. 
If  she  sorrow — lo  !  her  face 
It  is  like  a  flowery  space 
In  bright  meadows,  overlaid 
With  light  clouds  and  lulled  with  shade. 
If  she  laugh — it  is  the  thrill 
Of  the  wayward  whippoorwill 
Over  upland  pastures,  heard 
Echoed  by  the  mocking-bird 
In  dim  thickets  dense  with  bloom 
And  blurred  cloyings  of  perfume. 


Julia  209 

If  she  sigh — a  zephyr  swells 
Over  odorous  asphodels 
And  wan  lilies  in  lush  plots 
Of  moon-drown 'd  forget-me-nots. 
Then,  the  soft  touch  of  her  hand — 
Takes  all  breath  to  understand 
What  to  liken  it  thereto  ! — 
Never  roseleaf  rinsed  with  dew 
Might  slip  soother-suave  than  slips 
Her  slow  palm,  the  while  her  lips 
Swoon  through  mine,  with  kiss  on  kiss 
Sweet  as  heated  honey  is. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


JULIA. 

C  OME  asked  me  where  the  rubies  grew, 

And  nothing  I  did  say, 
But  with  my  finger  pointed  to 
The  lips  of  Julia. 

Some  asked  how  pearls  did  grow,  and  where  ; 

Then  spake  I  to  my  girl, 
To  part  her  lips,  and  shew  me  there 

The  quarelets  of  pearl. 


2io  Julia 

One  asked  me  where  the  roses  grew  ; 

I  bade  him  not  go  seek  ; 
But  forthwith  bade  my  Julia  shew 

A  bud  in  either  cheek. 

ROBERT  HBRRICK. 


JULIA. 

f~\  YOU,  who  know  such  Mays  as  blow 

The  cowslips  by  the  ways,  dear, 
The  mountain-pink  whose  heart,  you  'd  think, 
The  thorn-pierced  sparrow's  blood  did  drink, 
In  their  wise  way,  how — can  you  say  ? — 

Is  it  you  're  like  such  Mays,  dear  ? 
In  moods  that  run  from  shade  to  sun, 
A  thoughtful  gloom  ;  like  wild  perfume, 
A  winning  smile  that  laughs  down  guile — 

Dear  day  !  so  go  such  days,  dear. 
In  you  some  song  keeps  trying  long, 

I,ike  some  song  bird,  for  flight,  child  ; 
And  when  you  speak  all  up  your  cheek 
A  crystal  blush  will  faintly  flush 
So  saintly  sweet !  and  at  your  feet 

All  shadow  turns  to  light,  child. 
You  may  not  know,  but  it  is  so, 
If  you  but  look,  hark  !  far  a  brook 
Foams  white  through  buds  !  for  of  the  woods 

I  know  you  are  some  sprite,  child. 


Juliet  211 

Yes,  yes  ;  I  swear  that  what 's  your  hair 

Is  but  the  soft-spun  wind,  love  : 
Why,  when  you  move  it  is  as  Love 
Hid  in  your  grace  and  feet  to  face 
Peeped  roguishly  ;  and  well  I  see 

This  Love  is  not  a  blind  Love. 
Laugh,  and  I  hear,  in  each  pink  ear 
Wood-blossoms  strain,  dew-words  of  rain 
Slip  musical,  for  you  are  all 

Of  music  to  my  mind,  love. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 


JULIET. 

D  OMEO.      But,    soft !    what    light    through 

yonder  window  breaks  ! 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  ! 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid  art  far  more  fair  than  she : 
Be  not  her  maid  since  she  is  envious  ; 
Her  vestal  livery  is  but  sick  and  green, 
And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it ;  cast  it  off. 
It  is  my  lady  ;  O  !  it  is  my  love  : 
O,  that  she  knew  she  were  ! 
She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing  !  What  of  that  ? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. 


212  Juliet 

I  am  too  bold,  't  is  not  to  me  she  speaks  : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head  ? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those 

stars, 

As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eye  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 
That  birds  would  sing  and  think   it  were  not 

night. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
From  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 


JULIET. 

T  SEE  you,  Juliet,  still,  with  your  straw  hat 
Loaded  with  vines,  and  with  your  dear  pale 

face, 

On  which  those  thirty  years  so  lightly  sat, 
And  the  white  outline  of  your  muslin  dress. 
You  wore  a  little  fichu  trimmed  with  lace 
And  crossed  in  front,  as  was  the  fashion  then, 
Bound  at  your  waist  with  a  broad  band  or  sash, 
All  white  and  fresh  and  virginally  plain. 
There  was  a  sound  of  shouting  far  away 
Down  in  the  valley,  as  they  called  to  us, 


Suite  213 

And  you,  with  hands  clasped  seeming  still  to 

pray 

Patience  of  fate,  stood  listening  to  me  thus 
With  heaving  bosom.     There  a  rose  lay  curled. 
It  was  the  reddest  rose  in  all  the  world. 

WILFRID  SCAWBN  BLUNT. 


JUNE. 

"   1UNE  !  June  !  "  the  birds  are  singing, 

All  this  long  summer  day  ; 
"June  !  June  ! "  the  woods  are  ringing 

The  echo  of  each  lay. 
Where  is  the  charming  maiden? 

Will  she  come  to  me  soon  ? 
Return  oh,  dear,  love-laden 

Incomparable  June  ! 

Her  mind  a  noble  shrine  is 

For  all  that  's  pure  and  good  ; 
Her  heart  a  holy  sign  is 

Of  Love's  most  sacred  mood. 
Her  name  is  but  a  token 

For  I/ife's  most  perfect  rune, 
And  e'er  so  lightly  spoken 

I  love  the  name  of  June. 

DOUGLAS  MORROW. 


214  1Rate 

KATE. 

T  KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 

Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black 

hair, 

Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill, 
As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a  hill. 
'T  is  Kate — she  sayeth  what  she  will : 
For  Kate  hath  an  unbridled  tongue, 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp. 

Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 

Like  a  new  bow,  and  bright  and  sharp 

As  edges  of  the  scymetar. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a  fitting  mate  ? 
For  Kate  no  common  love  will  feel ; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 
As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 

Kate  saith  "the  world  is  void  of  might." 

Kate  saith  "the  men  are  gilded  flies." 
Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows  ; — 

Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 

Far  famed  for  well  won  enterprise, 
And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 

The  garland  of  new-wreathed  emprise  ; 


Tkatbarine  215 

For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight, 

And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right, 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady's  eyes. 

Oh  !  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and  fierce  ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 

She  can  not  find  a  fitting  mate. 

ALFRED  (!,ORD)  TENNYSON. 


KATHARINE. 

\A/E  see  you  as  we  see  a  face 

That  trembles  in  a  forest  place 
Upon  the  mirror  of  a  pool 
Forever  quiet,  clear  and  cool ; 
And  in  the  wayward  glass,  appears 
To  hover  between  smiles  and  tears, 
Elfin  and  human,  airy  and  true, 
And  backed  by  the  reflected  blue. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 


O 


KATHERINE. 

H,  tender,  trustful  face  and  steady  eyes, 
The  angels  must  have  kissed  thee  in  thy 
sleep, 


216  Ikatbleen 

And  through  the  slow  hours  of  the  weary  day 
That  gentle  talisman  thou  still  dost  keep. 
Through  lowliest  ways  of  life  thou  wanderest, 
A  Una,  clothed  in  peace  and  patience  sweet, 
And  lo,  the  darksome  forest  is  thy  friend, 
And  Discord  crouches  reverent  at  thy  feet. 
As  shell  within  its  tiny  spiral  holds 
The  everlasting  murmur  of  the  sea, 
The  music  that  controls  the  circling  spheres 
Finds  room  to  round  its  harmony  in  thee. 

LILY  A.  LONG. 


KATHLEEN. 

IV/I Y  Kathleen  dearest !  in  truth  or  seeming, 
1     No  brighter  vision  e'er  blessed  my  eyes 
Than  she  for  whom  in  Elysian  dreaming 

Thy  tranced  lover  too  fondly  sighs. 
Oh  !  Kathleen  fairest !  if  elfin  splendor 

Hath  ever  broken  my  heart's  repose, 
'T  was  in  the  darkness,  ere,  purely  tender, 

Thy  smile,  like  moonlight  o'er  ocean,  rose. 

Since  first  I  met  thee  thou  knowest  thine  are 
This  passion-music,  each  pulse's  thrill — 

The  flowers  seem  brighter,  the  stars  diviner, 
And  God  and  nature  more  glorious  still. 


IRatbleen  217 

I  see  around  me  new  fountains  gushing — 
More  jewels  spangle  the  robes  of  night ; 

Strange  harps  are  pealing— fresh  roses  blush- 
ing- 
Young  worlds  emerging  in  purer  light. 

No  more  thy  song-bird  in  clouds  shall  hover ; 

Oh  !  give  him  shelter  upon  thy  breast, 
And  bid  him  swiftly — his  long  flight  over — 

From  Heaven  drop  into  that  love-built  nest. 
Like  fairy  flow'rets  is  love  thou  fearest, 

At  once  that  springeth  like  mine  from  earth  ; 
'T  is  friendship's  ivy  grows  slowly,  dearest, 

But  love  and  lightning  have  instant  birth. 

Thy  mirthful  fancy  and  artless  gesture, 

Hair  black  as  tempest,  and  swanlike  breast, 
More  graceful  folded  in  simplest  vesture 

Than  proudest  bosoms  in  diamonds  drest. 
Not  these,  the  varied  and  rare  possession 

Love  gave  to  conquer,  are  thine  alone  ; 
But,  oh  !  there  crowns  thee  divine  expression, 

As  saints  a  halo,  that 's  all  thine  own. 

Thou  art  as  poets  in  olden  story 

Have  pictured  women  before  the  fall— 

Her  angel  beauty's  divinest  glory — 
The  pure  soul  shining,  like  God,  through  all. 


2i8  ftatbnna 

But  vainly,  humblest  of  leaflets  springing, 
I  sing  the  queenliest  flower  of  love  : 

Thus  soars  the  skylark,  presumptuous  singing 
The  orient  morning  enthroned  above. 

Yet  hear,  propitious,  beloved  maiden, 

The  minstrel's  passion  is  pure  as  strong, 
Through  nature  fated,  his  heart,  love-laden, 

Must  break,  or  utter  its  woes  in  song. 
Farewell !  if  never  my  soul  may  cherish 

The  dreams  that  bade  me  to  love  aspire. 
By  memory's  altar  !  thou  shalt  not  perish, 

First  Irish  pearl  of  my  Irish  lyre  ! 

RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS. 


KATHRINA. 

CHE  was  my  peer  : 

No  weakling  girl  who  would  surrender  will 
And  life  and  reason,  with  her  loving  heart, 
To  her  possessor  ;  no  soft,  clinging  thing 
Who  would  find  breath  alone  within  the  arms 
Of  a  strong  master,  and  obediently 
Wait  on  his  whims  in  slavish  carefulness  ; 
No  fawning,  cringing  spaniel,  to  attend 
His  royal  pleasure,  and  account  herself 
Rewarded  by  his  pats  and  pretty  words, — 


IRtttg  219 

But  a  round  woman,  who,  with  insight  keen, 
Had  wrought  a  scheme  of  life,  and  measured 

well 

Her  womanhood  ;  had  spread  before  her  feet 
A  fine  philosophy  to  guide  her  steps  ; 
Had  won  a  faith  to  which  her  life  was  brought 
In  strict  adjustment,  brain  and  heart  meanwhile 
Working  in  conscious  harmony  and  rhythm 
With  the  great  scheme  of  God's  great  universe, 
On  towards  her  being's  end. 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 
From  "Kathrina." 


KITTY. 

MAID  of  all  maids!— and  the  wide  earth  is 
1V1     full  of  them, 

Tender  and  witching,  and  slender  and  tall — 
I  know  a  maid  takes  the  shine  off  the  whole  of 

them  ; 

Kitty,  agra,  you  outrival  them  all. 
Pretty   and  sweet  are  you,  neat  and  complete 

are  you, 

Type  of  the  grace  of  an  old  Irish  stock  ; 
Rich  are  you,  rare  are  you,  fresh  are  you,  fair 

are  you — 
Kitty,  agra,  you  're  the  flower  of  the  flock. 


220  Tkittg 

When  I  kneel  down   at   Mass,   where  are  my 

thoughts,  alas? 

Naught  but  the  light  of  a  bright  face  I  see  ; 
All  that  my  praying  is,  all  that  I  "m  saying  is, 
"God  bless  sweet  Kitty,   and  keep  her  for 

me." 
Hourly  I  sigh  for  you,  proudly  I  'd  die  for  you, 

Joyfully  lay  down  my  life  on  the  block  ; 
King  on  his  throne   for  you  true  love   might 

own  for  you, 
Reigning  alone  for  you,  flower  of  the  flock. 

Maid  of  all  maidens,   my   life  is   entwined  in 

thine, 

Turning  to  thee  like  the  flowers  to  the  sun  ; 
Tell  me,  oh  !  tell  me,  thy  heart  is  enshrined  in 

mine — 

Tell  me,  asthore,  we  had  better  be  one. 
Come  with  me,  roam  with  me,  over  the  foam 

with  me, 

Come  to  my  home  with  me,  near  Carrig  rock, 
Light  of  my  life  to  be  sweetheart  and  wife  to 

be, 
Free  from  all  life  to  be,  flower  of  the  flock. 

FRANCIS  A.  FAHY. 
"  The  Flower  of  the  Flock." 


221 
LALAGF,. 

TF  whole  in  life  and  free  from  sin, 

Man  needs  no  Moorish  bow,  nor  dart, 
Nor  quiver,  carrying  death  within 
By  poison's  art. 

Though  frowning  Caucasus  he  treads, 
And  boiling  Syrtes  hath  defied, 
Been,  Fuscus,  where  Hydaspes  spreads 
His  mythic  tide. 

In  Sabine  woods,  and  fancy-free, 
A  wolf  observed  my  wandering  tread  ; 
Unarmed,  I  sang  of  Lalage  ; 
He  saw,  and  fled. 


Such  portent  in  the  oaken  grove, 
Hath  martial  Daunia  never  known  ; 
Nor  Juba's  land,  where  lions  rove 
The  thirsty  zone. 


Place  me,  where  desert  wastes  forbid 
One  tree  to  breathe  the  summer  wind, 
Where  fogs  the  land  and  seas  have  hid, 
With  Jove  unkind ; 


'•22  Xalage 

Or,  where  the  sun  so  near  would  be, 
That  none  to  build  or  dwell  may  dare  ; 
Thy  voice,  thy  smile,  my  I/alage, 
I  '11  love  them  there. 

HORACE. 
Translated  by  W.  E.  Gladstone. 


"\A7HAT  were  sweet  life  without  her 

Who  maketh  all  things  sweet 
With  smiles  that  dream  about  her, 

With  dreams  that  come  and  fleet ! 
Soft  moods  that  end  in  languor  ; 

Soft  words  that  end  in  sighs  ; 
Curved  frownings  as  in  anger  ; 

Cold  silence  of  her  eyes. 

Sweet  eyes  born  but  for  slaying, 

Deep  violet-dark  and  lost 
In  dreams  of  whilom  Maying 

In  climes  unstung  of  frost. 
Wild  eyes  shot  through  with  fire 

God's  light  in  godless  years, 
Brimmed  wine-dark  with  desire, 

A  birth  for  dreams  and  tears. 


Xalage  223 

Dear  tears  as  sweet  as  laughter, 

Low  laughter  sweet  as  love 
Unwound  in  ripples  after 

Sad  tears  we  knew  not  of. 
What  if  the  day  be  lawless, 

What  if  the  heart  be  dead, 
Such  tears  would  make  it  flawless, 

Such  laughter  make  it  red. 

Lips  that  were  curled  for  kisses, 

For  loves,  and  hates,  and  scorns, 
Brows  under  gold  of  tresses, 

Brows  as  beauteous  as  the  Morn's. 
Imperial  locks  and  tangled 

Down  to  the  graceful  hips  ; 
Hair  where  one  might  be  strangled 

Carousing  on  thy  lips. 

Rose-lovely  lips  that  hover 

About  the  honeyed  words, 
That  slip  wild  bees  from  clover 

Whose  sweets  their  sweet  affords. 
Though  days  be  robbed  of  sunlight, 

White  teeth  make  light  thereof ; 
Though  nights  unknown  of  onelight, 

Thine  eyes  were  stars  enough. 

Ah,  lily-lovely  features, 

Round  temples,  throat,  and  chin, 


224  Xaura 

Sweet  gods  of  godless  natures, 
Sweet  love  of  loveless  men  ! 

Still  moods  and  slumberous  fanned  on 
To  dreams  that  rock  to  sleep, 

Unmerciful  abandon, 
That  haunts  or  makes  one  weep. 

She  walks  as  if  with  sorrows, 

And  all  unknown  of  joy  ; 
Eyes  fixed  on  dim  to-morrows 

That  all  sad  feet  decoy. 
Yet  she,  a  peer  of  pleasures, 

Tears  from  Time's  taloned  hand 
The  hour-glass  he  treasures, 

And  wastes  its  sullen  sand. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 


LAURA. 

r\OTH  any  maiden  seek  the  glorious  fame 

Of  chastity,  of  strength,  of  courtesy? 
Gaze  in  the  eyes  of  that  sweet  enemy 
Whom  all  the  world  doth  as  my  lady  name  ! 
How  honor  grows,  and  pure  devotion's  flame, 
How  truth  is  joined  with  graceful  dignity, 
There  thou  may'st  learn,  and  what  the  path 
may  be 


ILaura  225 

To  that   high  heaven  which  doth  her  spirit 

claim  ; 
There  learn  soft  speech,   beyond   all   poet's 

skill, 

And  softer  silence,  and  those  holy  ways 
Unutterable,  untold  by  human  heart. 

But  the  infinite  beauty  that  all  eyes  doth  fill, 
This  none  can  copy  !  since  its  lovely  rays 
Are  given  by  God's  pure  grace,  and  not  by  art. 

FRANCESCO  PETRARCA. 
Translated  by  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson. 


LAURA. 

I/"  ATE  is  like  a  violet,  Gertrude  's  like  a  rose, 

Jane  is  like  a  gillyflower  smart ; 
But  Laura 's  like  a  lily,  the  purest  bud  that  blows, 
Whose  white,  white  petals  veil  the  golden 

heart. 

Girls  in  the  garden — one  and  two  and  three — 
One  for  song  and  one  for  play  and  one — ah,  one 

for  me  ! 

Gillyflowers  and  violets  and  roses  fair  and  fine, 
But  only  one  a  lily,  and  that  one  lily  mine  ! 

Bertha  is  a  hollyhock,  stately,  tall,  and  fair, 
Mabel  has  the  daisy's  dainty  grace, 


226  ILaurclla 

Edith  has  the  gold  of  the  sunflower  on  her  hair, 

But  Laura  wears  the  lily  in  her  face. 
Girls  in  the  garden — five  and  six  and  seven — 
Three  to  take,  and  three  to  give,  but  one — ah  ! 

one  is  given- 
Hollyhocks  and  daisies,  and  sunflowers  like  the 

sun, 
But  only  one  a  lily,  and  that  one  lily  won. 

E.  NESBIT  BLAND. 
"A  Garden  of  Girls." 


IvAURELLA. 

I  AUREL/LA,  thou  art  wild  and  coy, 

But  to  thy  mother  tame  ; 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  the  sad  joy 
And  madness  of  love's  flame. 

How  free  thy  hair  floats  in  the  breeze ! 

Thy  eyelashes  droop  low, 
Nor  man  nor  maiden  ever  sees 

The  thoughts  that  'neath  them  glow. 

Thy  teeth,  fresh  ruby  lips  between, 
As  snow  are  gleaming  white  ; 

And  now,  like  a  young  gipsy  queen, 
Dancing  thou  takest  flight. 


Xavinia  227 

If  some  rude  boy  but  look  on  thee 
Thy  cheek  with  crimson  glows  ; 
If  he  but  speak  straight  thou  dost  flee, 
As  pale  as  the  primrose. 

PAUL  JOHANN  I/UDWIG  HEYSE. 
Translated  by  J.  L,  Spalding. 


LAVINIA. 

HTHOUGHTLESS  of  beauty,  she  was  Beauty's 

self, 

Recluse  amid  the  close-embowering  woods. 
As  in  the  hollow  breast  of  Apennine, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  hills, 
A  myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eyes, 
And  breathes  its  balmy  fragrance  o'er  the  wild ; 
So  flourished  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all, 

The  sweet  I/avinia. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 

From  "  The  Seasons." 


LEILA. 

LJER  eye's  dark  charm  't  were  vain  to  tell, 

But  gaze  on  that  of  the  gazelle, 
It  will  assist  the  fancy  well  : 


228  Xeila 

As  large,  as  languishingly  dark, 

But  soul  beamed  forth  in  every  spark 

That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 

Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid. 

Yea,  soul,  and  should  our  Prophet  say 

That  form  was  naught  but  breathing  clay, 

By  Allah  !  I  would  answer  Nay  ; 

Though  on  Al-Sirat's  arch  I  stood, 

Which  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 

With  Paradise  within  my  view, 

And  all  his  houris  beckoning  through. 

Oh  !  who  young  Delia's  glance  could  read 

And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed, 

Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 

A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust  ? 

On  her  might  muftis  gaze,  and  own 

That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone  ; 

On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 

The  young  pomegranate's  blossoms  strew 

Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new  : 

Her  hair  in  hyacinthine  flow, 

When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below, 

As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 

She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 

Gleamed  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 

It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 

The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water  : 


ILeolme  229 

So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan  ! 
As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide  ; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck — 
Thus  armed  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise. 

I,ORD  BYRON. 
"The  Giaour." 


LEOLINE. 

IN  the  molten -golden  moonlight, 

In  the  deep  grass  warm  and  dry, 
We  watched  the  firefly  rise  and  swim 

In  floating  sparkles  by. 
All  night  the  hearts  of  nightingales, 

Song-steeping,  slumberous  leaves, 
Flowed  to  us  in  the  shadow  there 

Below  the  cottage-eaves. 

We  sang  our  songs  together 

Till  the  stars  shook  in  the  skies. 

We  spoke — we  spoke  of  common  things, 
Yet  the  tears  were  in  our  eyes. 


230  fceolfne 

And  my  hand — I  know  it  trembled 
To  each  light,  warm  touch  of  thine  ; 

But  we  were  friends,  and  only  friends, 
My  sweet  friend,  I/eoline  ! 

How  large  the  white  moon  looked,  dear  ! 

There  has  not  ever  been, 
Since  those  old  nights,  the  same  great  light 

In  the  moons  which  I  have  seen. 
I  often  wonder  when  I  think, 

If  you  have  thought  so  too, 
And  the  moonlight  has  grown  dimmer,  dear, 

Than  it  used  to  be  to  you. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  warm  west-wind 

Comes  faint  across  the  sea, 
It  seems  that  you  have  breathed  on  it, 

So  sweet  it  comes  to  me. 
And  sometimes,  when  the  long  light  wanes 

In  one  deep  crimson  line, 
I  muse,  "And  does  she  watch  it  too, 

Far  off,  sweet  I/eoline  ?  " 

And  often,  leaning  all  day  long 

My  head  upon  my  hands, 
My  heart  aches  for  the  vanished  time 

In  the  far,  fair  foreign  lands  ; 
Thinking  sadly — "  Is  she  happy  ? 

Has  she  tears  for  those  old  hours  ? 


ILeoltne  231 

And  the  cottage  in  the  starlight? 
And  the  songs  among  the  flowers  ?  " 

One  night  we  sat  below  the  porch, 

And  out  in  that  warm  air 
A  firefly,  like  a  dying  star, 

Fell  tangled  in  her  hair  ; 
But  I  kissed  him  lightly  off  again, 

And  he  glittered  up  the  vine, 
And  died  into  the  darkness 

For  the  love  of  Leoline  ! 

Between  two  songs  of  Petrarch 

I'  ve  a  purple  rose-leaf  pressed, 
More  sweet  than  common  rose-leaves, 

For  it  once  lay  in  her  breast. 
When  she  gave  me  that  her  eyes  were  wet ; 

The  rose  was  full  of  dew. 
The  rose  is  withered  long  ago  ! 

The  page  is  blistered,  too. 

There 's  a  blue  flower  in  my  garden, 

The  bee  loves  more  than  all ; 
The  bee  and  I,  we  love  it  both, 

Though  it  is  frail  and  small. 
She  loved  it,  too — long,  long  ago  ; 

Her  love  was  less  than  mine. 
Still  we  were  friends,  but  only  friends, 

My  lost  love,  Leoline  ! 

ROBERT  BULWER  LYTTON. 


232  Xeonora 

LEONORA. 

I  EONORA,  Leonora, 

How  the  word  rolls — Leonora- 
Lion-like,  in  full-mouthed  sound, 
Marching  o'er  the  metric  ground, 
With  a  tawny  tread  sublime — 
So  your  name  moves,  Leonora, 
Down  my  desert  rhyme. 


So  you  pace,  young  Leonora, 
Through  the  alleys  of  the  wood, 
Head  erect,  majestic,  tall, 
The  fit  daughter  of  the  Hall ; 
Yet  with  hazel  eyes  declined, 
And  a  voice  like  the  summer  wind, 
And  a  meek  mouth,  sweet  and  good, 
Dimpling  ever,  Leonora, 
In  fair  womanhood. 


How  those  smiles  dance,  Leonora, 
As  you  meet  the  pleasant  breeze 
Under  your  ancestral  trees  ; 
For  your  heart  is  free  and  pure 
As  this  blue  March  sky  o'erhead, 
And  in  the  life-path  you  tread, 
All  the  leaves  are  budding,  sure, 
All  the  primroses  are  springing, 


leebia  233 

All  the  birds  begin  their  singing — 
'T  is  your  spring-time,  Leonora, 
May  it  long  endure. 

DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK  (CRAIK). 
From  "Leonora." 


LESBIA. 

'  CORE  thee  I  cast  the  purple  royal  of  my 

muse, 

'Fore  thee  I  breathless  stand  too  mute  to  kneel. 
I  speak,  indeed,  to  thee,  but  with  mine  ardent 

glance 

Whose  loyalty  is  based  upon  thy  weal. 
To  dream  of  thee  and  die  is  not  so  much  to  ask  ; 
To  hope  for  thee  and  live  !     O,  may  it  be  my 


'Fore  thee  I  cast  the  purple  royal  of  my  muse, 
As  pure  as  angel-thoughts  that  praise  inspire, 
And  strong  as  that  which  spurs  the  glitt'ring 

spheres  of  God 

On  their  eternal  inference  of  desire  ; 
Divine  of  thee  has  wrought  divine  of  me  like 

light, 
That  from  the  tossing  wave  reflects  again  at 

night. 


234  3LUfa 

'Fore  tbee  I  cast  the  purple  royal  of  my  muse. 
No  churl's  cheap  cloak  with  flimsy  tinsel  spread, 
Nor  one  that  to  the  wealth  of  shops  a  slav'ry 

owes, 

But  rich  or  poor  with  it,  the  legend  's  read  ; 
If  Love  but  lifts  this  trophy  so  divinely  rare, 
The  act  crowns  Love,  and  Love  herself  writes 

"  Genius"  there. 

FORSYTH  DE  FRONSAC. 


LILIA. 

I   ILIA,  come  when  the  day  is  breaking, 

Dawn  may  not  shine  on  the  blooms  with- 
out thee, 

Under  thy  radiance,  all  blushing  and  waking, 
Buds  from  their  crimson  a  new  summer  see  ; 
And  this  heart  o'  mine, 
All  whose  pulses  are  thine, 
Will  send  out  to  welcome  thee  love   all   in 

flowers  ; 

Till,  borne  to  my  arms, 
I  wish  but  thy  charms 

To  scatter   the  shadows   from   life's  morning 
hours. 

Lilia,  come  when  the  day  is  fading, 

Darkness  can  ne'er  be  companion  to  thee  ; 


^Lilian  235 

Glooms  of  the  eve  are  but  Nature's  soft  shading, 
Brighter  to  picture  the  smile  kept  for  me  ; 

And  that  heart  o'  thine, 

All  whose  pulses  are  mine, 
Will  bring  me  the  chalice  of  joy  running  o'er  ; 

Be  mine  but  the  blessing 

Thy  blush  is  repressing, 
And  this  life  that  loves  thee  is  blest  evermore. 

A.  STEPHEN  WILSON. 


A1 


LILIAN, 
i. 

IRY,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 


2. 


When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 

She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 


236  Lilian 

Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks  : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gather'd  wimple 
Glancing  with  black -beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks  ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trill eth  : 

Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian. 


•I 


Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 


ILillan  237 

LILIAN. 

AX7HENEVER  the  south  wind  blows, 

Straight  to  the  cliff  I  hie  ; 
A  little  back  from  the  edge, 

On  the  brown  turf,  down  I  lie  ; 

And  there  I  ponder  and  muse  ; 

I  hear  what  the  South  has  to  say  : 
To  me  it  is  seldom  news, 

For  I  hear  it  every  day. 

Lilian  thinks  't  is  the  stir — 

The  eternal  sound  of  the  sea  : — 

'T  is  not  of  the  sea,  but  of  her, 
And  her  virgin  love  for  me. 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE. 


LILITH. 

T     WANDERING  in  a  certain  waste  alone 
*     In   lands   deserted,   where  no  'wild    bird 

called, 

Before  the  desolation  stood  appalled 
That  stretched  away  in  dreary  monotone  ; 
The  wind  went  muttering  like  a  withered  crone 
And     stunted    trees    in.     grayish    moss    were 
shawled, 


238  ILina 

A  marshy  mist,  slow  moving,  upward  crawled, 
And  sullen  nature  brooded,  turned  to  stone. 

But  on  a  sudden,  by  a  swampy  space, 
In  weaving  lines  of  breezy  disarray, 
A  host  of  saffron  lilies  thronged  the  air, 
And  I  bethought  me  of  a  woman's  face 
As  fair,  as  sweet,  as  languorous  as  they, 
The  sunlight  on  her  tangled  yellow  hair. 

ERNEST  MCGAFFEY. 


UNA. 

I  INA,  rival  of  the  linnet, 

When  these  lays  shall  reach  thy  hand, 
Please  transfer  them  to  the  spinnet, 

Where  thy  friend  was  wont  to  stand. 

Set  the  diapason  ringing, 

Ponder  not  the  words  you  see, 

Give  them  utterance  by  thy  singing, 
Then  each  leaf  belongs  to  thee. 

With  the  life  of  music  fill  them  ; 

Cold  the  written  verses  seem, 
That,  would  Lina  deign  to  trill  them, 

Might  be  trancing  as  a  dream. 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE. 


ILlsa  239 

LISA. 

TIER  heart,  her  mind,  her  voice,  her  looks ! 

Her  hundred  virtues  sweet  as  uard  ! 
Could  I  but  set  them  down  in  books, 

The  world  would  need  no  other  bard, 
And  I,  secure  with  fadeless  bays, 
Be  hailed  immortal  through  her  praise. 

CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN. 


LISETTE. 

\A7HEN  Love  in  myrtle  shades  reposed, 

His  bow  and  darts  behind  him  slung  ; 
As  dewy  twilight  round  him  closed, 

Lisette  these  numbers  sung  : 
"  O  Love  !  thy  sylvan  bower 
I  '11  fly  while  I  've  the  power  ; 
Thy  primrose  way  leads  maids  where  they 
Love,  honor,  and  obey  !  " 

"  Escape,"  the  boy -god  said,  "  is  vain," 

And  shook  the  diamonds  from  his  wings  : 

"  I  '11  bind  thee  captive  in  my  train, 
Fairest  of  earthly  things  !  " 

"  Go,  saucy  archer,  go  ! 

I  freedom's  value  know  : 


240 


Begone,  I  pray  —  to  none  I  '11  say 
'  Love,  honor,  and  obey  !  '  " 

"  Speed,  arrow,  to  thy  mark  !  "  he  cried  — 

Swift  as  a  ray  of  light  it  flew  ! 
Ix>ve  spread  his  purple  pinions  wide, 

And  faded  from  her  view  ! 
Joy  filled  that  maiden's  eyes  — 
Twin  load-stars  from  the  skies  !  — 
And  one  bright  day  her  lips  did  say, 
,  honor,  and  obey  !  " 

GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 


LIZZIE. 

/^\H,  who  can  paint  the  picture  of  my  pet, 
As  "mid  the  grey-green  hay  she  childlike 

kneels, 

Who  shows  a  dainty  slipper,  then  conceals 
'Neath  tangled  grass  its  celadon  rosette  ? 
A  soft,  white  robe,  a  broidered  chemisette 

Scarce  veils  her  rounded  bosom,  as  it  steals 
A  subtle  charm  it  only  half  reveals — 
As  sweet  and  modest  as  the  violet ! 

A  gipsy  hat  casts  shadows,  pearly  grey, 

Across  the  golden  sunshine  of  her  smile, 


Xois  241 

Her  glance  e'en  cynics  dare  not  disobey, 
Her  dimples  even  iron  hearts  beguile — 

A  dainty  despot  on  a  throne  of  hay, 

Who  conquers  all  by  magic  girlish  wile  ! 

J.  ASHBY-STERRY. 


LOIS. 

'"THB  day  when  Lois  walked  with  me 

September  skies  were  blue  ; 
The  woodbine  on  the  wayside  wall 
Had  found  its  autumn  hue. 

In  gown  of  changing  green  and  rose 

And  undersleeves  of  white, 
With  skirt  in  loose  and  flowing  folds, 

And  bodice  trim  and  tight, — 

Her  low-combed  hair  was  just  the  shade 

Of  fallen  chestnut  burs  ; 
The  cheeks  of  mellow  astrakans 

Are  not  more  ripe  than  hers. 

It  seemed  the  mushrooms  showed  their  caps 

To  win  her  eyes  of  brown, 
And  for  one  look  into  their  depths, 

The  orchard  boughs  bent  down. 


242  Xora 

A  blossom  of  the  early  fall 

That  later  days  would  chill, 
Dear  girl,  somewhere  those  eyes  must  wear 

A  gleam  of  summer  still. 

CORA  A.  MATSON. 
"  A  Memory  of  l,ois." 


LORA. 

I  ORA  is  her  name  that  slips 

Nearly  love  between  the  lips  ; 
You  must  know  she  is  so  wise 
All  she  does  is  lift  her  eyes 
At  her  name  and  that  replies — 

She  's  so  wise,  is  L,ora. 

Lora  is  her  name  that  makes 
All  the  heart  a  chord  that  shakes  ; 
When  she  speaks,  she  is  so  blessed, 
Life's  hard  riddle  none  has  guessed 
Softens,  and  the  soul 's  caressed 
By  the  words  of  L,ora. 

Lora  is  her  name  that  brings 
Kisses  as  of  airy  things. 
Honeyed  hum  of  bees  that  deep 


Xorraine  243 

In  the  rumpled  blue-bells  creep, 
Buoyant  sun-hearts  forests  keep 
For  their  shadows'  lives,  such  leap 
In  the  life  of  Lora. 

Lora,  when  I  find  your  face, 
Round  your  white  neck  I  will  lace 
One  firm  arm,  and  so  will  woo 
Your  small  mouth,  as  fresh  as  dew, 
With  quick  kisses,  love,  that  you 
Follow  must  where  heart*  are  true, 

Somewhere,  somewhere,  Lora. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 


LORRAINE. 

I   CANNOT  paint  thee  as  I  would  :  the  hue 
That   blooms  upon  thy  cheek,   is  but  the 

glow 

From  thy  translucent  spirit, — flushes  that  flow 
From  the  pure  chastity  of  womanhood  ; 
Lustre  from  vestal  flames,  that,  fed  anew, 
Perpetual  burn,  though  hidden  from  the  view. 
So  still  a  spirit,  such  meek  brightness  would 
Chasten  the  gazer  to  a  kindred  mood. 
An  eye  brimmed  with  the  calm  of  placid  love, 
Unmixed  with  passion   or  with  thoughts  that 
rove  ; 


244  Xottie 

Pure  lips,  whose  ruddy  fulness  thread  with  bliss 
The  loving  thoughts  they  coin  to  words ;  that 

kiss 

With  cleansing  pressure  all  the  ambient  air, 
And  make  about  a  purer  atmosphere. 
A  soul  serene,  Madonna-like,  enshrined 
In  her  dear  self  ;  at  ease  and  free  from  pain  ; — 
Such  is  our  golden  one,  our  dear  Lorraine. 

FRANCIS  ALLEN  HILLARD. 


LOTTIE. 

"/^\H,  Lottie  is  fair  as  the  morning, 

And  Lottie  is  bright  as  the  sun  ; 
Her  cheeks  all  the  roses  are  scorning, 
Her  eyes  dance  with  frolic  and  fun. 

"  She  fills  all  the  day  with  her  chatter, 
With  laughter  the  pauses  between, 

And  care  to  the  four  winds  doth  scatter — 
For  Lottie  is  merry  sixteen." 

But  what  though  Miss  Lottie  is  pretty  ? 

And  what  though  Miss  Lottie  is  bright  ? 
And  what  though  she  really  be  witty, 

Or  merry  from  morning  till  night  ? 


Xouisa  245 

• 

What  good  does  it  do  me  to  know  it, 
Though  her  presence  makes   Summer  of 
Fall? 

For  my  brother,  alas,  is  her  poet, 
And  I  've  never  seen  her  at  all ! 

JAMES  G.  BURNETT. 


LOUISA. 
(After  accompanying  her  on  a  mountain  excursion.) 

I  MET  Louisa  in  the  shade, 

And,  having  seen  that  lovely  maid, 
Why  should  I  fear  to  say 
That,  nymph-like,  she  is  fleet  and  strong, 
And  down  the  rocks  can  leap  along 
Like  rivulets  in  May  ? 

She  loves  her  fire,  her  cottage  home  ; 
Yet  o'er  the  moorland  will  she  roam 
In  weather  rough  and  bleak  ; 
And,  when  against  the  wind  she  strains, 
Oh  !  might  I  kiss  the  mountain  rains 
That  sparkle  on  her  cheek. 

Take  all  that 's  mine  "  beneath  the  moon," 
If  I  with  her  but  half  a  noon 


246  Xouise 

May  sit  beneath  the  walls 
Of  some  old  cave,  or  mossy  nook, 
When  up  she  winds  along  the  brook 
To  hunt  the  waterfalls. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


LOUISE. 

""THOU  stately  queen  of  Love's  domain,  Louise  ! 
There  's  conquest  even  in  thy  lilting  name, 
That  echoes  yet  some  olden  jouster's  fame, 
Who  tilted  death  his  lady  fair  to  please. 
In  Love's  dear  conflict  thou  dost  win  with  ease, 
Triumphing  through  thy  hair  of  dusky  flame, 
Thine  eye-darts  with  their  swift  inerrant  aim, 
And  all  thy  charms  my  willing  powers  that  seize. 
Fain  do  I  strive,  but  just  enough  to  lose, 
For  when  I  lose,  the  guerdon  yet  is  mine, 

And  I  am  victor,  chained  and  on  my  knees. 
Then    will    I,    vanquished,    my    sweet    forfeit 

choose, 

While  Mars  and  Eros  put  their  seals  divine 
Upon  my  choice,  my  conqueror,  Louise. 

HENRY  A.  VAN  FREDENBERG. 
"Sonnets  to  Fair  Women." 


Xucasta  247 

LUCASTA. 

IF  to  be  absent  were  to  be 

Away  from  thee  ; 
Or  that,  when  I  am  gone, 
You  or  I  were  alone  ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I  "11  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 

To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue-god's  rage  ; 
For,  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I  'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  lands  be  'twixt  us  both, 

Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet, 
Unseen,  unknown  ;  and  greet  as  angels  greet. 

So,  then,  we  do  anticipate 

Our  after-fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  th'  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  heaven, — their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 
RICHARD  LOVELACE. 


248  OLucile 

LUCILE. 

A  S  soft,  and  as  sallow  as  Autumn — with  hair 
Neither  black,    nor  yet  brown,  but  that 
tinge  which  the  air 

Takes  at  eve  in  September,  when  night  lingers 
lone* 

Through  a  vineyard,  from  beams  of  a  slow-set- 
ting sun. 

Eyes — the  wistful  gazelle's ;  the  fine  foot  of  a 
fairy  ; 

And  a  hand  fit  a  fay's  wand  to  wave, — white 
and  airy  ; 

A  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  tune  that  one  knows. 

Something  in  her  there  was,  set  you  thinking 
of  those 

Strange  backgrounds  of  Raphael     .     .     .     that 
hectic  and  deep 

Brief  twilight  in  which  southern  suns  fall  asleep. 

Lucile  had  acquired  that  matchless,  unconscious 

appeal 
To  the  homage  which  none  but  a  churl  would 

withhold — 

That  caressing  and  exquisite  grace — never  bold, 
Ever  present — which  just  a  few  women  possess. 
From  healthful  repose,  undisturb'd  by  the  stress 
Of  unquiet  emotions,  her  soft  cheek  had  drawn 
A  freshness  as  pure  as  the  twilight  of  dawn. 


Xucrece  249 

Her   figure,  though  slight,  had  revived  every- 
where 
The  luxurious  proportions  of  youth  ;  and  her 

hair — 

Once  shorn  as  an  offering  to  passionate  love — 
Now  floated  or  rested  redundant  above 
Her  airy  pure  forehead  and  throat ;    gather'd 

loose 

Under  which,  by  one  violet  knot,  the  profuse 
Milk-white  folds  of  a  cool  modest  garment  re- 
posed, 
Rippled  faint  by  the  breast  they  half  hid,  half 

disclosed, 

And  her  simple  attire  thus  in  all  things  reveal'd 
The  fine  art  which  so  artfully  all  things  con- 
ceal 'd. 

ROBERT  BTJLWER  LYTTON. 
From  "I,ucile." 


LUCRECE. 

LJ  ER  lily  hand  her  rosy  cheek  lies  under, 
Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawful  kiss  ; 
Who,  therefore  angry,  seems  to  part  in  sunder, 
Swelling  on  either  side,  to  want  his  bliss, 
Between  whose  hills  her  head  entombed  is  ; 
Where,  like  a  virtuous  monument,  she  lies, 
To  be  admir'd  of  lewd,  unballow'd  eyes. 


250 

Without  the  bed  her  other  fair  hand  was, 
On  the  green  coverlet ;  whose  perfect  white 
Show'd  like  an  April  daisy  on  the  grass, 
With  pearly  sweat,  resembling  dew  of  night. 
Her  eyes,  like  marigolds,  had  sheath 'd  their 

light, 

And  canopied  in  darkness  sweetly  lay, 
Till  they  might  open  to  adorn  the  day. 

Her  hair,  like  golden  threads,  play'd  with  her 

breath  ; 

O,  modest  wantons  !  wanton  modesty  ! 
Showing  life's  triumph  in  the  map  of  death, 
And  death's  dim  look  in  life's  mortality  : 
Each  in  her  sleep  themselves  so  beautify, 
As  if  between  them  twain  there  were  no  strife, 
But  that  life  liv'd  in  death,  and  death  in  life. 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
From  "  The  Rape  of  Lucrece." 


LUCY. 

O EVENTEEN  rose-buds  in  a  ring, 
Thick  with  sister  flowers  beset, 

In  a  fragrant  coronet, 
Lucy's  servants  this  day  bring. 

Be  it  the  birthday  wreath  she  wears 
Fresh  and  fair,  and  symbolling 


Xuella  251 

The  young  number  of  her  years, 
The  sweet  blushes  of  her  spring. 

Types  of  youth  and  love  and  hope  ! 

Friendly  hearts  your  mistress  greet, 

Be  you  ever  fair  and  sweet, 
And  grow  lovelier  as  you  ope  ! 

Gentle  nursling,  fenced  about 
With  fond  care,  and  guarded  so, 

Scarce  you  've  heard  of  storms  without, 
Frosts  that  bite,  or  winds  that  blow  ! 

Kindly  has  your  life  begun, 

And  we  pray  that  Heaven  may  send 
To  our  floweret  a  warm  sun, 

A  calm  summer,  a  sweet  end. 
And  where'er  shall  be  her  home, 

May  she  decorate  the  place  ; 
Still  expanding  into  bloom, 

And  developing  in  grace. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 
'Lucy's  Birthday." 


LUELLA. 

[/"  ATE  's  at  her  best  in  an  apron, 

Jinny  's  bewitching  by  gas, 
While  Becky,  in  kitchen  or  parlor, 
Is  just  the  ne  plus  of  a  lass  ; 


252  TLuclla 

But  Katie  and  Jinny, 
With  Sadie  and  Minnie 
And  Becky  and  Bella, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 

Deb,  in  the  choir  of  a  Sunday, 

Sings  like  a  bird  in  the  bough  ; 
Brisk  Nan  sits  a  saddle  superbly, 
And  Betty  's  a  charmer,  somehow  ; 
But  Debby  and  Nanny, 
And  Betty  and  Annie, 
And  Bdna  and  Stella, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 

Fan  is  a  sylph  in  a  bonnet, 

Nett  has  her  dozens  undone  ; 
Grave  Addy  would  madden  Adonis, 
And  Caddy  is  certain  to  stun  ; 
But  Fanny  and  Addy, 
And  Nettie  and  Caddy, 
And  Hetty  and  Delia, 
Are  not — not  Luella. 

Clara — the  turn  of  her  ankle  ; 

Dolly — her  eyes  and  her  smile  ! 
And  where  is  the  match  for  Semantha 
(Unless  it  be  Molly)  in  style  ? 
But  Clara  and  Dolly, 
Semantha  and  Molly, 


'JLulu  253 

And  Esther  and  Ella, 
Are  not — not  I/uella. 

Heavens,  what  a  reign  of  all  graces  ! 

Each  is  a  queen  in  her  way  ; 
And  turning  it  over  and  over, 
There 's  only  a  word  left  to  say  : 
Give  me  one  and  another 
For  this  and  the  other, 
But,  O,  fora  "fellah"— 
Luella  !  Luella  !  ! 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 


A    BIRTHDAY  again  ! 
But  nothing  I  rue  ; 
No  age  can  have  terror 
That  brings  to  me — you. 

If  winged  went  the  year, 
None  too  swiftly  it  flew, 

For  't  was  only  its  last 
That  revealed  to  me — you. 

How  many  my  years  ? 

Ah,  dear,  if  you  knew  ; 
But  why  count  the  ones 

That  were  lived  without — you  ! 


254 

Now  time  turns  him  backward, — 

Indeed  this  is  true, — 
I  'm  just  a  year  younger 

Since  I  've  known — you  ! 

CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB. 
"  To  Lulu  :  On  One  of  My  Birthdays." 


LYDIA. 

DREAK  forth,  break  forth,  O  Sudbury  town, 

And  bid  your  yards  be  gay 
Up  all  your  gusty  streets  and  down, 
For  I/ydia  comes  to-day  ! 

I  hear  it  on  the  wharves  below  ; 

And  if  I  buy  or  sell, 
The  good  folk  as  they  churchward  go 

Have  only  this  to  tell. 

My  mother,  just  for  love  of  her, 

Unlocks  her  carved  drawers  ; 
And  sprigs  of  withered  lavender 

Drop  down  upon  the  floors. 

For  Lydia's  bed  must  have  the  sheet 

Spun  out  of  linen  sheer, 
And  Lydia's  room  be  passing  sweet 

With  odors  of  last  year. 


Hgnette  255 

The  violet  flags  are  out  once  more 

In  lanes  salt  with  the  sea  ; 
The  thorn-bush  at  Saint  Martin's  door 

Grows  white  for  such  as  she. 

So,  Sudbury,  bid  your  gardens  blow, 

For  Lydia  comes  to-day  ; 
Of  all  the  words  that  I  do  know 

I  have  but  this  to  say. 

I^IZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE. 


LYNETTE. 

A    DAMSEL  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 

May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple-blos- 
som, 

Hawk-eyes  ;  and  lightly  was  her  slender  nose 
Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 
From  "  Gareth  and  Lynette." 


MABEL. 

CAIR  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night ! 

Should  Mabel  plead  in  vain  ? 
Dear  Muse,  when  lovely  lips  invite, 
Ah  !  sweet  should  be  the  strain  ; 


256  /fcabel 

So  lend  my  lyre  a  blyther  lay, 
Whose  winsome  glee  shall  flow 

As  lightly  as  the  winds  at  play, 
Where  summer  roses  blow. 

Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night ! 

In  days  of  old  romance, 
The  minstrel  sang  for  Beauty  bright, 

The  gallant  broke  a  lance  ; 
And  both  in  homage  proudly  knelt 

To  loveliness  and  grace — 
Ah,  luckless  age  !  it  never  felt 

The  charm  of  Mabel's  face  ! 

Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night ! 

Her  voice  is  low  and  pure  ; 
Oh,  who  can  hear  that  voice  aright, 

And  yield  not  to  its  lure  ? 
Or  who  can  meet  those  peerless  eyes 

That  dim  the  vestal's  flame, 
And  never  feel  a  yearning  rise 

To  win  a  poet's  name  ? 

Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night ! 

Ah,  could  my  numbers  chime 
With  Herrick's  grace,  or  vie  in  flight 

With  Waller's  courtly  rhyme  ; 
Oh,  I  would  voice  a  strain  to  match 

Her  every  lissome  wile  ; 


257 


And  centuries  to  come  should  catch 
The  splendors  of  her  smile. 

Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to  night  ;  — 

Alas  !  she  pleads  in  vain  ! 
The  muse  hath  winged  a  silent  flight 

Beyond  the  silver  main. 
A  song  for  Mabel  were  too  sweet 

For  mortal  ears  to  know  ; 
I  only  catch  its  rhythmic  beat 

When  Dreamland  zephyrs  blow. 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 


MABEL. 

T  N  the  woods  young  Mabel  stands — 

Ivoitering  by  an  opening  ; 
Ferns  and  flowers  are  in  her  hands — 

Just  this  morning's  blossoming  ; 
Blue  sky  to  the  fir-tops  bends, 

To  see  fair  Mabel  loitering. 

The  heavens,  methinks,  are  glad  to  see 
Grace  and  beauty  such  as  hers  ; 

Methinks  the  pines  would  neighbors  be 

Long  time — and  larch  and  sombre  firs  ;- 

For  such  a  bit  of  jollity 

Is  not  in  all  the  universe. 


258  flfcafceline 

They  are  sad,  and  sigh,  and  moan — 
Never  laugh,  a  pleasant  laugh  ; 

But  she  is  glad,  as  if  alone 

Of  all  Earth's  gladness  she  were  half. 

Hear  their  pining  monotone 

Stilled  to  make  way  for  her  laugh  ! 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  " — a  liquid  note, 
Like  a  brook  within  a  dell, 

Or  a  wood-thrush  in  his  grot, 

Singing — just  where,  none  can  tell ; 

See  her  pretty,  pearly  throat, 

With  her  bosom  fall  and  swell  ! 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE. 


MADELINE. 

A    CASEMENT  high  and  triple-arched  there 

was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass, 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damasked  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 


259 


And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon   blushed  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings. 

Pull    on   this    casement    shone   the   wintry 

moon, 
And  threw  warm   gules   on   Madeline's   fair 

breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace   and 

boon  ; 

Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross,  fair  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint  ; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save    wings,    for    heaven  :  —  Porphyro    grew 

faint  : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 

taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  ;  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is 
fled. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,    until  the  morrow- 
day  ; 

Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 

pray; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 
again. 

JOHN  KEATS. 
From  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 


MADELINE. 


'THOU  art  not  steeped  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  range 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 

Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 


261 


2. 


Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  ;  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  ? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know  ? 

Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 
Like  little  clouds,  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother  : 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 

All  the  mystery  is  thine  ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

3- 

A  subtle,  sudden  flame, 

By  veering  passion  fann'd, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances 
When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 


262 


The  flush  of  anger's  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown, 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest  ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 
All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 

In  a  golden-netted  smile  ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angrily  ; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 

ALFRED  (I^ORD)  TENNYSON. 


MADGE. 


cheeks  were  a-glowing  with  roses, 
Your  hair  was  a  ripple  of  gold  : 
Away  with  the  pain  that  discloses 
The  love  that  I  bore  you  of  old  ! 
You  taught  me  to  whirl  to  the  measure 

Of  waltzes  and  schottisches,  too, 
The  knowledge  has  given  me  pleasure, 
Miss  Madge,  and  I  owe  it  to  you  ! 


263 

With  fingers  as  light  as  a  fairy, 

You  thrummed  on  the  ivory  keys  ; 
With  badinage,  blithesome  and  airy, 

You  taught  me  to  be  at  my  ease, 
And  join  in  your  melody,  ringing, 

And  thrilling  my  heart  through  and  through  : 
So  now  I  am  lauded  for  singing, 

Miss  Madge,  and  I  owe  it  to  you  ! 

A  worldly  wise  beauty  of  twenty, 

Who  many  a  conquest  had  seen, 
Of  lovers  you  surely  had  plenty, 

Why  toy  with  a  lad  of  eighteen  ? 
Your  manner,  bewitching  and  artless, 

Ensnared  me  for  aye,  as  you  knew  ; 
And  now  I  am  bitter  and  heartless, 

Miss  Madge,  and  I  owe  it  to  you  ! 

P.  S.  BROWN. 
"  Miss  Madge." 


MAGGIE. 

LJ  ER  face  was  as  the  summer  cloud,  whereon 
The  dawning  sun  delights  to  rest  his  rays  ! 
Compared  with  it,  old  Sharon's  vale,  o'ergrown 
With  flaunting  roses,  had  resigned  its  praise ; 
For  why  ?    Her  face  with  heaven's  own  roses 
shone, 


264  /llbaggie 

Mocking  the  morn,   and  -witching    men  to 

gaze ; 

And  he  that  gazed  with  cold  unstnitten  soul, 
That  blockhead's  heart  was  ice  thrice    baked 

beneath  the  Pole. 

Her  locks,  apparent  tufts  of  wiry  gold, 
Lay  on  her  lily  temples,  fairly  dangling, 

And  on  each  hair,  so  harmless  to  behold, 
A  lover's  soul  hung  mercilessly  strangling  ; 

The  piping  silly  zephyrs  vied  to  unfold 

The  tresses  in  their  arms  so  slim  and  tan- 
gling, 

And  thrid  in  sport  these  lover-noosing  snares, 

And  played  at  hide-and-seek  atnid  the  golden 
hairs. 

Her  eye  was  as  an  honored  palace,  where 

A  choir  of  lightsome  Graces  frisk  and  dance  ; 

What  object  drew  her  gaze,  how  mean  soe'er, 
Got  dignity  and  honor  from  the  glance  ; 

Woe  to  the  man  on  whom  she  unaware 
Did  the  dear  witchery  of  her  eye  elance  ! 

'T  was  such  a  thrilling,  killing,  keen  regard — 

May  Heaven  from  such  a  look  preserve  each 
tender  bard  ! 

WILLIAM  TENNANT. 

From  "  Anster  Fair." 


/foarcella  265 

MARCELLA. 

C  YES  justly  levelled,  searching  yet  sedate, 
A  marble  brow  enthroning  a  still  light, 
A  cheek  that  neither  seeks  nor  shuns  our  sight, 
A  form  severely  fair,  on  which  aye  wait 
All  natural  emblems  of  un boastful  state  ; 
A  step  reserved,  yet  steadied  by  the  might 
Of  fearless  frankness,  garments  dark  as  night, 
A  breast  the  Loves  in  vain  would  penetrate — 
Thou  hast  no  wishes  :  for  the  vestal  Spirit 
As  with  a  beaming  breastplate  doth  repel 
Whate'er  of  troubled  joy  with  her  would  dwell. 
The  brave  with  thee  approval  find,  not  merit : 
Thy  first  of  duties  deem'st  thou  this — to  scorn 
What  is  not  of  the  Immortals  born. 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


O 


MARGARET. 

I. 

SWEET  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 
Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ? 


266  flbargaret 

From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have  won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek, 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 
Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 

1/ull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

3- 
What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 


flfcargaret  267 

The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars  ? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 


A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods, 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue, 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 


O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me  speak ; 


268  flfcargerg 

Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  ; 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 

Moving  in  the  leafy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 

Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 
Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 
Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 

ALFRED  (LORD)  TENNYSON. 


MARGERY. 

'TELL  you  every  feature 

Of  so  sweet  a  creature  ! 
What  a  fool  I  'd  be 
To  wake  the  whole  world  up  to  see 
Pretty,  pretty  Margery  ! 

Blue  eyes  full  of  twinkles, 
Hair  in  cutest  krinkles, 
Dimples — Cautiously  ! 
I  fear  that  you  begin  to  see 
Little  witching  Margery. 


/Ifcarguerfte  269 

Well,  then,  tell  me  whether 

Two  rosebuds  together 

Could  shape  lips  di-v — 

But  that  is  making  much  too  free 

With  the  charms  of  Margery. 

Something  of  a  notion 
Of  her  brooky  motion, 
That  were  safe  :  her  fee — 
No,  no  ;  another  word,  ah  me, 
And  the  end  of  Margery  ! 

Such  a  throat  !  thereunder, 
Why,  the  gods  would  wonder 
As  they  gazed  :  a  b — 
Bless  me,  stop  there,  decidedly  ; 
How  she  'd  blush,  would  Margery  ! 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 


MARGUERITE. 

UAIR  Marguerite,  the  red  of  parted  lips 

Grows  deeper,  and  the  glory  of  thy  brow 
More  glorious  yet,  as  lowered  lids  allow 

Swift  glances,  fleeting,  but  as  sweet  as  sips 

Of  honey  from  the  hearts  of  flowers.     So 
now, 


270  jflfcarguerite 

Poised  in  the  halo  of  the  sun  that  dips 

Behind  the  empurpled  hills,  thy  presence 

seems 
The  realized  perfection  of  my  dreams. 

Sweet,  silent  Marguerite  !  How  may  I  name 
The  hundred-tinted  shadows  of  thy  hair  ? 
Or  count  the  liquid  lights  of  eyes  as  rare 

As  polished  pearls  beneath  white  jets  of  flame, 
Or  soft  stars  scintillant  through  lambent 
air 

In  the  hushed  night  ?    How,  seeing  thee,  pro- 
claim 

The  love  I  fain  would  bring,  a  sacrifice 
To  offer  at  the  altar  of  thine  eyes  ? 

Nay,  Marguerite,  I  cannot ;  for  the  soul 

That  reigns  transcendent  in  the  dwelling- 
place 

Of  thy  fair  form,  irradiates  thy  face 
With  lustre  pure  as  words  writ  on  the  scroll 
Of   God's  own  law.      I  would    not    dare 

erase 
One  faintest  tracery,  although  the  goal 

Which  whispered  words  of  love  ensured  to 

me 

Should  be  an  answering  whisper  felt   by 
thee. 

FRANCIS  HOWARD  WILLIAMS. 


dfcarguente  271 

MARGUERITE. 

I  IFT  up  thy  timorous  eyes  to  mine, 

O  Marguerite  ! 
Thy  pensive  head's  demure  incline, 

And  glance  discreet ; 
And  from  those  azure  depths,  dispense 

One  gracious  gleam 
Of  heaven  and  holy  innocence, 

To  light  love's  dream. 

From  chariest  store  of  smiles  vouchsafe 

One — only  one  ; — 
For  merged  heart,  the  merest  waif, 

To  seize  upon  ; 
And  from  thy  calm  and  coy  lips'  curve, 

And  lily  face, 
In  lovely  virginal  reserve, 

Shed  heart  of  grace. 

Ix>  !  Cupid,  lying  in  ambush  ! 

Through  sudden  start — 

Through     shame's     surprised     and     conscious 
blush, 

Faint  soul  takes  heart ; 
Through  flooding  of  thine  eyes'  sunshine, 

Thy  shyness  sweet, 
Love's  wary  ways — I  know  thee  mine, 

O  Marguerite  ! 

MARGARET  C.  BISLAND. 


272  .flfoanan 

MARIAN. 

CHE  was  not  white  nor  brown, 

But  could  look   either,   like  a  mist  that 

changed 

According  to  being  shone  on  more  or  less  ; 
The  hair,  too,  ran  its  opulence  of  curls 
In  doubt  'twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor  left  you 

clear 

To  name  the  color.     Too  much  her  hair  perhaps 
(I  '11  name  a  fault  here)  for  so  small  a  head, 
Which  seemed  to  droop  on  that  side  and  on  this, 
As  a  full-blown  rose  uneasy  with  its  weight 
Though  not  a  wind  should  trouble  it.     Again, 
The  dimple  in  the  cheek  had  better  gone 
With    redder,   fuller  rounds ;    and    somewhat 

large 

The  mouth  was,  though  the  milky  little  teeth 
Dissolved  it  to  so  infantine  a  smile. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 
From  "Aurora  I^eigh." 


MARIE. 

i. 

MARIE  draws  near: 

I  seem  to  hear 
The  shy  approach  of  dreamy  innocence  : 


/Iftarfe  273 

As  if — brown  leaves  her  crown — 
A  dryad  should  step  down 

From  some  dim  oak-tree  where  the  woods  are 
dense. 

II. 

Marie 's  with  me  : 
I  seem  to  see 
The  brambles  blossom  where  just  touched  her 

dress  : 

For,  as  the  whole  spring  glows 
In  one  wild,  woodland  rose, 
In  her  for  me  lives  all  life's  loveliness. 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 


MARIE. 

UOR  thee  was  always  my  awakening  thought, 
For  thee  the  prayer  that  soothed  me  ere  I 

slept, 
For  thee   the  smiles   that    Hope  but    seldom 

brought, 
For  thee  the  many  bitter  tears  I  wept. 

For  thee  my  life  I  gladly  would  cast  down, 
And  for  thy   love  would  pay   Death's  fatal 
price, 

Thou,  my  sweet  consolation  and  my  crown, 
Thou,  my  despair,  my  hope,  my  Paradise. 


274  /Barton 

For  thee,  oh  my  unsullied,  stainless  goal, 
I  live  to-day  !  and  for  one  perfect  kiss 

From  thy  warm  lips  I  would  give  forth  my  soul 
And  life  in  worlds  hereafter  and  in  this. 

For  thee,  from  sin  I  would  not  even  shrink, 
For  thee,  I  would  not  tremble  before  death, 

For  thee  I  'd  perish,  if  I  once  could  sink 
And  die  upon  the  perfume  of  thy  breath. 

Thou  art  my  hope,  my  future,  and  my  past, 
Thou  art  my  sweetest  torture  and  delight, 

Thou  art  my  only  love,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou  art  my  radiant  dawn,  my  starry  night. 

Spurn  not  my  passion  that  will  e'er  abide, 
Boundless  and  vast  and  constant  as  the  sea, 

But  rather  pity  in  thy  conscious  pride 
A  love  more  strong  than  death  itself,   for 

thee. 

FRANCIS  SALTUS  SALTUS. 
"For  Thee.    To  Marie  B." 


MARION. 

I  ITTLE  Maid  Marion,  Rose  in  June, 

What  breath  of  prophecy  comes  and  goes, 
And  stirs  your  heart  like  a  vagrant  tune 
Till  the  deepening  bloom  on  your  soft  cheek 
glows, 


dfoarion  275 

And  your  blue  eyes  shine  like  the  morning  sky 
Just  alight  with  the  morning  star — 

Hopeful  and  happy  and  sweet  and  shy, 
While  day  and  its  glare  are  yet  afar  ? 

Have  you  heard  a  name  that  we  do  not  hear 
And  set  it  to  music  all  your  own  ? 

Has  there  come  to  you  in  a  vision,  Dear, 
A  face  that  only  your  eyes  have  known  ? 

Or  is  it  still  but  a  wandering  voice 

That    whispers    you    something   vague   and 

sweet, 
Of  days  of  wooing  and  days  of  choice, 

And  hearts  that  meet  as  the  waters  meet, — 

Days  that  will  come  to  you,  Rose  in  June, — 
Days  that   will   test   you,   and   try   you  and 
show 

The  sacredest  meaning,  the  secretest  tune, 
Of  all  that  your  maidenly  heart  can  know  ? 

They   will  leave   you  not    as  they   find    you, 

Dear, — 

The  morning  star  gives  place  to  the  sun  ; 
But  your  blue  eyes  meet  me,  faithful  and  clear, 
I   can   trust  your  soul,  when   the   dream  is 
done. 

LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 
"  Maid  Marion." 


276  flfcartba 

MARTHA. 

•"TRANSFIXED  and  spitted  in  my  heart 
By  Mistress  Martha's  eyes,  their  dart, 
Which  has  within  me  raised  a  great 
Commotion  and  uneasy  state. 

Or  are  they  black  or  are  they  blue 
I  know  not  any  more  than  you, 
Nor  could  I  for  a  wager  say 
If  they  be  hazel,  brown,  or  gray. 

But  when  it  conies  to  diagnosis 
Of  what  the  outcome  of  their  use  is, 
Full,  comprehensive,  and  exact 
Is  my  conception  of  the  fact. 

When  first  their  witchery  has  begun 
You  might  be  saved  if  you  would  run  ; 
But  who  would  look  for  cause  for  fear 
In  depths  so  limpid,  calm,  and  clear. 
Too  soon,  poor  fool,  you  find  you  've  stayed 
Till  it  's  too  late  to  be  afraid. 

Alas  for  him  who  thus  misreckons 
For  friendly  lights  mistaking  beacons. 
Better  it  were  if  he  had  found 
Clarence,  his  fate,  in  Malmsey  drowned, 


277 


Than,  Mistress,  in  thine  eyes  to  sink, 
Nor  make  a  tear  o'erflow  its  brink. 

E.  S.  MARTIN. 
"  Of  Mistress  Martha  :  Her  Eyes." 


MARY. 

TS  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ? 

Such  should,  methinks,  its  music  be  ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear 

Were  best  befitting  thee  ; 
And  she  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 
I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair  ; 

Ah  !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 
Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare  ; 

And  she  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing 

Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 
To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown  : 

When  evening  shades  the  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone  ; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal  ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 
'L'Inconnue." 


278  flbarg 

MARY. 

/^*  O  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 
^"^     And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie  ; 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie  ; 
The-vboat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith  ; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 
It 's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry  ; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that  's  heard  afar — 

It  's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
"  Bonnie  Mary." 


MARY. 

T^VEAR  honored  name,  beloved  for  human  ties, 
But  loved  and  honored  first  that  One  was 

given 

In  living  proof  to  erring  mortal  eyes 
That  our  poor  earth  is  near  akin  to  heaven. 


279 


Sweet  word  of  dual  meaning  :  one  of  grace, 
And  born  of  our  kind  advocate  above  ; 

And  one  by  memory  linked  to  that  dear  face 
That  blessed  my  childhood  with  its  mother- 
love, 

And  taught  me  first  the  simple  prayer,    "To 

thee, 

Poor  banished  sons  of  Eve,  we  send  our  cries;" 
Through  mist  of  years,  those  words  recall  to 

me 
A  childish  face  upturned  to  loving  eyes. 

And  yet,  to  some  the  name  of  Mary  bears 
No  special  meaning  and  no  gracious  power  ; 

In  that  dear  word  they  seek  for  hidden  snares, 
As  wasps  find  poison  in  the  sweetest  flower. 

But  faithful  hearts  can  see,  o'er  doubts  and  fears, 
The  Virgin  link  that  binds  the  Lord  to  earth  ; 

Which  to  the  upturned,  trusting  face  appears 
A  more  than  angel,  though  of  human  birth. 

The  sweet-faced  moon  reflects  on  cheerless  night 
The  rays  of  hidden  sun  to  rise  to-morrow  ; 

So  unseen  God  still  lets  His  promised  light, 
Through  holy  Mary,  shine  upon  our  sorrow. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


280  dfcarg 

MARY. 

C  HE  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 
L,ike  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 


281 


The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill  ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
'  She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight." 


MATILDA. 

A  S  airy  and  blithe  as  a  blithe  bird  in  air, 

And  her  arch  rosy  lips,  and  her  eager  blue 

eyes, 

With  their  little  impertinent  look  of  surprise, 
And  her  round  youthful  figure,  and  fair  neck 

below 

The  dark  drooping  feather,  as  radiant  as  snow, — 
I  can  only  declare,  that  if  I  had  the  chance 
Of  passing  three  days  in  the  exquisite  glance 
Of  those  eyes,  or  caressing  the  hand  that  now 

petted 
That  fine  English  mare,  I  should  much  have 

regretted 

Whatever  might  lose  me  one  little  half-hour 
Of  a   pastime  so  pleasant,  when  once  in   my 

power ; 


282  /ibattl&a 

For,  if  one  drop  of  milk  from  the  bright  Milky 

Way 
Could  turn  into  a  woman,  't  would  look,  I  dare 

say, 
Not  more  fresh  than  Matilda  was  looking  that 

day. 

ROBERT  BULWER  LYTTON. 
From  "  Lucile." 


MATILDA. 

AX7REATHED in  its  dark-brown  rings, 

her  hair 

Half  hid  Matilda's  forehead  fair, 
Half  hid  and  half  reveal' d  to  view 
Her  full  dark  eye  of  hazel  hue. 
The  rose,  with  faint  and  feeble  streak, 
So  slightly  tinged  the  maiden's  cheek, 
That  you  had  said  her  hue  was  pale  ; 
But  if  she  faced  the  summer  gale, 
Or  spoke,  or  sung,  or  quicker  moved, 
Or  heard  the  praise  of  those  she  loved, 
Or  when  of  interest  was  express'd 
Aught  that  waked  feeling  in  her  breast, 
The  mantling  blood  in  ready  play 
Rivall'd  the  blush  of  rising  day. 
There  was  a  soft  and  pensive  grace, 
A  cast  of  thought  upon  her  face, 


283 


That  suited  well  the  forehead  high, 
The  eyelash  dark,  and  downcast  eye  ; 
The  mild  expression  spoke  a  mind 
In  duty  firm,  composed,  resign  'd  ; 
'T  is  that  which  Roman  art  has  given 
To  mark  their  maiden  Queen  of  Heaven. 
In  hours  of  sport  that  mood  gave  way 
To  fancy's  light  and  frolic  play  ; 
And  when  the  dance,  or  tale,  or  song, 
In  harmless  mirth  sped  time  along, 
Full  oft  her  doating  sire  would  call 
His  Maud  the  merriest  of  them  all. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
From  "Rokeby." 


MAUD. 

I. 
A   VOICE  by  the  cedar  tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 
She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 
A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call  ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  laud. 


284 


II. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  grace, 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  die, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and 

mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

in. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice, 
Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 
With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 
A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 
Still  !    I  will  hear  you  no  more, 
For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 

ALFRED  (!,ORD)  TENNYSON. 


MAY. 

(~\  LUVE  will  venture  in,  where  it  daur  na  weel 

be  seen  ; 

O  luve  will  venture  in,  where  wisdom  ance  has 
been ; 


285 


But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove,  amangthe  wood 

sae  green, 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu',  the  firstling  o'  the  year, 
And  I  will  pu'  the  pink,  the  emblem  o'   my 

dear, 
For  she  's  the  pink  o'  womankind,  and  blooms 

without  a  peer  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I  '11  pu'  the  budding  rose,  when  Phoebus  peeps 

in  view, 
For  it  's  like  a  baumy  kiss  o'  her  sweet  bonny 

mou  ; 
The  hyacinth  's  for  constancy,  wi'  its  unchang- 

ing blue, 
And  a'  to  be  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 

And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I  '11  place  the  lily 

there  ; 

The  daisy  's  for  simplicity  and  unaffected  air, 
And  a'  to  be  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu'  wi'  its  locks  o'  siller 


Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o' 
day, 


286  /toeanfcrea 

But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  I  winna 

tak'  away  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I  will  pu'  when  the  e'ening  star 

is  near, 
And  the  diamond  drops  o'  dew  shall  be  her  een 

sae  clear  ; 
The  violet  's  for  modesty  which  weel  she  fa's  to 

wear, 
And  a'  to  be  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I  '11  tie  the  Posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  o' 

luve, 
And  I  '11  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I  '11  swear, 

by  a'  above, 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band  shall 

ne'er  remove, 
And  this  will  be  a  Posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
"The  Posie." 


MEANDREA. 

JVAEANDREA'S  bonnet  on  a  peg  !— it  wakes 
*         My  heart  to  beat  till  it  nigh  breaks — 

With  bows  pinned  on  ;  ah  me  ! 

What  woman  ever  pinned  them  on  as  she  ?- 


flfceanDrea  287 

And  hollyhocks  like  any  garden  : 
I  dare  to  gaze  and  ask  no  pardon  : 

I  vow,  oh  yes,  I  vow  it — 

My  love,  I  will  avow  it. 

She  may  toss  back  her  sweet  head,  having  on  it 
A  pile  of  feathers,  or  its  bonnet, 
And  strike  quite  through  poor  me 
With  her  rash  eyes  ; — could  she  so  cruel  be  ? 
And  yet,  when  I  turn  crimson  trying 
With  Lord  Mariff  to  be  a-vieing, 
Close  to  his  ear  she  twitters 
Behind  her  fan,  and  titters. 

I  will  Meandrea  marry,  that  I  will ; 
And  strut  about  in  fluted  frill, 
And  cut  a  dash,  and  see 
Her  titter  back  behind  her  fan  with  me  : 
And  I  bow  off  Mariff  so  finely — 
She  can  but  own  I  bow  divinely — 
I  vow,  I  vow  I  will  it : 
I  vow  and  will  fulfil  it. 

Meandrea's  face  I  see  within  the  bonnet 
As  if  the  thing  were  on  it  ; 
I  practise,  so  you  see  ; 
I  bow  ;  I  bow  before  it  gracefully  ; 
Surely  when  I  am  dressed  in  filagree 
She  will  smile  now  on  me, 


288  flbelanie 

Now  I  have  caught  the  knack, 
Who  peeps  at  yonder  crack  ? 

Meandrea  entering  at  the  door,  ah  sakes  ! 
And  now  she  upon  me  breaks 
With  Ivord  Mariff,  ah  me  ! 
Strutting  in  all  his  high-flown  majesty 
In  froth  and  fluff  of  senseless  jargon — 
It  was  a  pretty,  pretty  bargain 
I  drove  with  Fate,  for  now 
Too  late  I  learn  to  bow. 

Meandrea  giggles  outright ;  bother  on  it  f 
Had  I  practised  toward  some  other  bonnet 
Elsewhere,  she  had  never 
Dreamed,  although  so  mighty  deft  and  clever, 
How  I  became  so  very  polished, 
Nor  had  my  heart  been  so  demolished  : 
It  is  demolished,  oh  I  vow  it — 
My  love  ?  dare  I  avow  it  ? 

GEORGE  KLINGLE. 
"Ah  Me!" 


MELANIE. 

\X7HEN  first  I  heard  thy  soft,  Gallian  name, 
I  pictured  thee  before  my  dreaming  eyes 
In  some  such  lovely  shape  as  sudden  came 
With  sound  of  syllables  in  Gascon  guise. 


/Dbelissa  289 

But  when   I   saw   thee    first, — when   first    thy 
mouth 

Yielded  its  rosy  curves  in  amorous  smile, 
Revealed  the  vagrant  dimples  ambushed  there, — 

The  vision  I  had  conjured  erst  awhile 
Was  lost  in  mortal  form  so  laughing  fair 
That  it  might  symbolize  the  Maenad  South  : 

A  glowing  maiden  with  dishevelled  hair 
Fleeing  a  low,  white  forehead,  shading  eyes 
Within  whose  depths  the  warmth  of  summer 

lies 
Steeped  in  the  melting  blue  of  Garonne  skies ! 

W.  I,.  BRIGHAM. 


MELISSA. 

A  N  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 

If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she  :  how 

pretty 

Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush'd  again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish  : 
Not  like  your   Princess  cramm'd  with  en-ing 

pride, 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags  in  tow. 

ALFRED  (!,ORD)  TENNYSON. 
From  "  The  Princess." 


ago  flfcelissa 

MELISSA. 

/^VF  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 

Emerge,  them  rosy-finger'd  morn, 
Emerge,  in  purest  dress  array 'd, 
And  chase  from  Heaven  night's  envious  shade 
That  I  once  more  may,  pleased,  survey 
And  hail  Melissa's  natal  day. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 
Emerge,  thou  rosy-finger'd  morn  ; 
In  order  at  the  eastern  gate 
The  Hours  to  draw  thy  chariot  wait  ; 
Whilst  Zephyr,  on  his  balmy  wings, 
Mild  nature's  fragrant  tribute  brings, 
With  odours  sweet  to  strew  thy.  way, 
And  grace  the  bland  revolving  day. 

But  as  thou  lead'st  the  radiant  sphere, 

That  gilds  its  birth,  and  marks  the  year, 

And  as  his  stronger  glories  rise, 

Diffused  around  th'  expanded  skies, 

Till  clothed  with  beams  serenely  bright, 

All  Heaven's  vast  concave  flames  with  light; 

So,  when,  through  life's  protracted  day, 
Melissa  still  pursues  her  way, 
Her  virtues  with  thy  splendor  vie, 
Increasing  to  the  mental  eye  : 


dfcignon  291 

Though  less  conspicuous,  not  less  dear, 

Long  may  they  Icon's  prospect  cheer  ; 

So  shall  his  heart  no  more  repine, 

Bless'd  with  her  rays,  though  robb'd  of  thine. 

THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 
"Ode  to  Aurora,  on  Melissa's  Birthdav." 


MIGNON. 

A  CROSS  the  gloom  the  gray  moth  speeds 

To  taste  the  midnight  brew, 
The  drowsy  lilies  tell  their  beads 
On  rosaries  of  dew. 
The  stars  seem  kind, 
And  e'en  the  wind 
Hath  pity  for  my  woe, 
Ah,  must  I  sue  in  vain,  ma  belle  ? 
Say  no,  Mignon,  say  no  ! 

Ere  long  the  dawn  will  come  to  break 

The  web  of  darkness  through  ; 
Let  not  my  heart  unanswered  ache 
That  beats  alone  for  you. 
Your  casement  ope, 
And  bid  me  hope, 
Give  me  one  smile  to  bless, 
A  word  will  ease  my  pain,  ma  belle  ; 
Say  yes,  Mignon,  say  yes  ! 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 


292  /HMgnonne 

MIGNONNE. 

AT  morning,  from  the  sunlight 
I  shall  miss  your  sunny  face 
Leaning,  laughing,  on  my  shoulder 
With  its  careless  infant  grace  ; 
And  your  hand  there, 

With  its  rosy,  inside  color, 

And  the  sparkle  of  its  rings  ; 
And  your  soul  from  this  old  chamber 

Missed  in  fifty  little  things, 
When  I  stand  there. 

And  the  roses  in  the  garden 

Droop  stupid  all  the  day, — 
Red,  thirsty  mouths  wide  open, 

With  not  a  word  to  say  ! 
Their  last  meaning 

Is  all  faded,  like  a  fragrance 

From  the  languishing  late  flowers, 

With  your  feet,  your  slow  white  movements, 
And  your  face,  in  silent  hours, 
O'er  them  leaning. 

And,  in  long,  cool,  summer  evenings, 

I  shall  ever  see  you,  drest 
In  those  pale  violet  colors 

Which  suit  your  sweet  face  best. 
Here  's  your  glove,  child, 


/HMgnonne  293 

Soiled  and  empty,  as  you  left  it, 

Yet  your  hand's  warmth  seems  to  stay 

In  it  still,  as  though  this  moment 
You  had  drawn  your  hand  away, 
Like  your  love,  child, 

Which  still  stays  about  my  fancy. 

See  this  little,  silken  boot, — 
What  a  plaything  !     Was  there  ever 

Such  a  slight  and  slender  foot  ? 
It  is  strange,  now, 

How  that,  when  your  lips  are  nearest 

To  the  lips  they  feed  upon 
For  a  summer  time,  till  bees  sleep, 

On  a  sudden  you  are  gone  ? 

What  new  change,  now, 

Sets  you  sighing     .     .     .     eyes  uplifted 

To  the  starry  night  above  ? 
"  God  is  great    .    .    .    the  soul 's  immortal — 

Must  we  die,  though  ?   .    .    .    Do  you  love? 
One  kiss  more,  then  : 

"  Life  might  end  now  !  "     .     .     .     And  next 

moment 

With  those  wicked  little  feet 
You  have  vanished, — like  a  Fairy 
From  a  fountain  in  the  heat, 
And  all's  o'er,  then. 


294  flMgnonne 

Well,  no  matter  !     .     .     .     hearts  are  break- 
ing 

Every  day,  but  not  for  you, 
Little  wanton,  ever  making 

Chains  of  rose,  to  break  them  through. 
I  would  mourn  you, 

But  your  red  smile  was  too  warm,  Sweet, 

And  your  little  heart  too  cold, 
And  your  blue  eyes  too  blue  merely, 

For  a  strong,  sad  man  to  scold, 
Weep,  or  scorn  you. 

For  that  smile's  soft,  transient  sunshine 
At  my  hearth,  when  it  was  chill, 

I  shall  never  do  your  name  wrong, 

But  think  kindly  of  you  still  ; 

And  each  moment 

Of  your  pretty  infant  angers, 

(Who  could  help  but  smile  at  .    .    .    when 
Those  small  feet  would  stamp  our  love  out?) 

Why,  I  pass  them  now,  as  then, 
Without  comment. 

Only,  here,  when  I  am  searching 

For  the  book  I  cannot  find, 
I  must  sometimes  pass  your  boudoir, 

Howsoever  disinclined  ; 

And  must  meet  there 


/fcicjnonne  295 

The  gold  bird-cage  in  the  window, 

Where  no  bird  is  singing  now  ; 
The  small  sofa  and  the  footstool, 

Where  I  miss  ...  I  know  not  how  .  .  . 
Your  young  feet  there, 

Silken-soft  in  each  quaint  slipper  ; 

And  the  jewelled  writing-case, 
Where  you  never  more  will  write  now  ; 

And  the  vision  of  your  face, 
Just  turned  to  me  : — 

I  would  save  this,  if  I  could,  child, 

But  that 's  all     ...     September  's  here ! 

I  must  write  a  book  :    read  twenty  : 

Learn  a  language     .     .     .     what 's  to  fear? 
Who  grows  gloomy 

Being  free  to  work,  as  I  am  ? 

Yet  these  autumn  nights  are  cold. 
How  I  wonder  how  you  '11  pass  them  ! 

Ah     .     .     .     could  all  be  as  of  old  ! 
But  'tis  best  so. 

All  good  things  must  go  for  the  better, 

As  the  primrose  for  the  rose. 
Is  love  free  ?  why  so  is  life,  too  ! 

Holds  the  grave   fast  ?     .     .     .     I  suppose 
Things  must  rest  so. 

ROBERT  BULWER  LYTTON. 


296  Afgnoime 

MIGNONNE. 
FOURTEENTH  CENTURY  FORM. 

MIGNONNE,  whose  face  bends  low  for  tny 

caressing, 
New   and   unknown   to-night    thy    beauty 

seeineth  ; 
Dimly    I    read    thine    eyes    as    one    who 

dreameth. 

The  moonlight  yester-eve  fell  soft  in  blessing, 
That   coldly   now   across    thy   bright   hair 

gleameth  : 

Mignonne,  whose  face  bends  low  for  my  caress- 
ing, 

New  and  unknown    to-night    thy  beauty 
seemeth. 

As  penitent,  low-voiced,  his  sins  confessing, 
Pleads  where  the  light  of  the  high    altar 

streameth, 
I  speak  to  thee,  whose  love  my  love  re- 

deetneth. 

Mignonne,  whose  face  bends  low  for  my  caress- 
ing, 
New    and    unknown  to-night  thy   beauty 

seemeth  ; 

Dimly    I    read    thine    eyes    as    one    who 
dreameth. 

SOPHIE  JEWETT. 


297 
MILDRED. 

\  A/ E  laughed  at  Mildred's  laugh,  which  made 

All  melancholy  wrong  ;  its  mood 
Such  sweet  self-confidence  display'd, 

So  full  a  sense  of  present  good. 
Her  faults  my  fancy  fired  ; 

My  loving  will,  so  thwarted,  grew  ; 
And,  bent  on  worship,  I  admired 

All  that  she  was,  with  partial  view. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 
From  "The  Angel  in  the  House." 


MILDRED. 

\X7HERE   Mildred    moves,    come   clouldless 
skies, 

And  airs  with  perfume  filled, 
Or,  if  a  cloud  perchance  should  rise, 

Her  glance  its  gloom  will  gild. 

She  goes,  and  bleaker  blows  the  wind, 

The  flowers  less  sweetly  spring, 
The  vine  with  sadder  leaf  is  twined, 

The  birds  less  gaily  sing. 

The  river  glides  by  marge  and  isle, 
The  cliffs  look  beetling  down  ; 


298  /Ibimi 

On  yesterday  they  seemed  to  smile, 
And  now  they  wear  a  frown. 

By  tender  retrospect  upborne, 
Parting  should  have  no  pain  ; 

But  still  our  yearning  hearts  will  mourn 
Till  Mildred  come  again. 

WILLIAM  PRESTON  JOHNSTON. 


MIMI. 

|V/l  IMI,  do  you  remember — 

1     Don't  get  behind  your  fan — 
That  morning  in  September 

On  the  cliffs  of  Grand  Manan  ; 
Where  to  the  shock  of  Fundy 

The  topmast  harebells  sway, 
(Campanula  rotundi- 

foli:  cf.  Gray)? 

On  the  pastures  high  and  level, 

That  overlook  the  sea, 
Where  I  wondered  what  the  devil 

Those  little  things  could  be 
That  Mimi  stooped  to  gather, 

As  she  strolled  across  the  down, 


/HMmt  299 

And  held  her  dress  skirt  rather — 
Oh,  now,  you  need  n't  frown. 

For  you  know  the  dew  was  heavy, 
And  your  boots,  I  know,  were  thin  ; 

So  a  little  extra  brevi- 
ty in  skirts  was,  sure,  no  sin. 

Besides,  who  minds  a  cousin  ? 
First,  second,  even  third — 

I  've  kissed  'em  by  the  dozen, 
And  they  never  once  demurred. 

"  If  one  's  allowed  to  ask  it," 

Quoth  I,  "  ma  belle  cousine, 
What  have  you  in  your  basket  ?  " 

(Those  baskets  white  and  green 
The  brave  Passamaquoddies 

Weave  out  of  scented  grass, 
And  sell  to  tourist  bodies 

Who  through  Mount  Desert  pass.) 

You  answered,  slightly  frowning, 

"  Put  down  your  stupid  book — 
That  everlasting  Browning  ! — 

And  come  and  help  me  look. 
Mushroom  you  spik  him  English, 

I  call  him  champignon  ; 
I  '11  teach  you  to  distinguish 

The  right  kind  from  the  wrong." 

HENRY  A.  BEERS. 


300  flMnnfe 

MINNIE. 

Q  CRYSTAL  Well, 

^^     Play  daintily  on  golden  sands, 

When  she  conies  at  morning  lonely, 

Followed  by  her  shadow  only, 
To  bathe  those  little  tender  hands, 

All  aweary  gathering 

Seeds  to  make  her  blue  bird  sing.    . 
O  crystal  Well  ! 

O  Forest  brown, 

Breathe  thy  richest  twilight  balm, 
As  she  wanders,  pulling  willow 
Leaflets  for  her  fragrant  pillow, 
Which  with  snowy  cheek  and  calm 
She  shall  press  with  half-closed  eyes 
While  the  great  stars  o'er  thee  rise, 
O  Forest  brown  ! 

O  Lady  Moon, 

Light  her,  as  she  mounts  the  stair 
To  her  little  sacred  chamber, 
Like  a  mother  ;  and  remember 
While  she  slumbers  full  of  prayer, 
Sweetly  then  to  fill  her  heart 
With  dreams  of  heaven,  where  thou  art, 
O  Lady  Moon  ! 

THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRWIN. 


/HMnnie  301 

MINNIE. 

A   PICTURE-FRAME  for  you  to  fill, 

A  paltry  setting  for  your  face, 
A  thing  that  has  no  worth  until 

You  lend  it  something  of  your  grace, 

I  send  (unhappy  I  that  sing 

Laid  by  awhile  upon  the  shelf)    • 

Because  I  would  not  send  a  thing 
Less  charming  than  you  are  yourself. 

And  happier  than  I,  alas  ! 

(Dumb  thing,  I  envy  its  delight) 
'T  will  wish  you  well,  the  looking-glass, 

And  look  you  in  the  face  to-night. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 
'  To  Minnie,  with  a  Hand-Glass. " 


MIRANDA. 

CERD  IN  AND.— Admired  Miranda  ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration  ;  worth 
What  's  dearest  to  the  world  !     Full  many  a 

lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard  ;  and  many  a  time 


302 


The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bond- 

age 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  :  For  several  vir- 

tues 

Have  I  liked  several  women  ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil  :  But  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
"The  Tempest." 


MIRANDA. 

C  OME  other  clime  you  knew, 

Some  foreign  laud  knew  you 
When  first  you  shook  your  curls  upon  the  wind ; 
In  Grecian  meadows  sweet, 
You  set  your  girlish  feet, 

Or  laughed  in  lakes  Italian  as  the  parted  grass 
you  thinned. 

No  daughter  of  the  snow, 
No  northern  bud  could  blow 
Into  a  gold-crowned  blossom,  lace-enswathed ; 
The  soft  and  sunny  South 
Has  surely  framed  that  mouth, 


303 


The  fervid  East  that  glowing  skin,  those  lan- 
guid limbs,  has  bathed. 

Although  your  hair  be  gold, 
It  holds  no  hint  of  cold, 

But  rather  guards  a  bright  and  secret  flame  ; 
I  see  from  my  low  place 
A  curl  lie  on  the  lace  — 

It  harbors  light  and  warmth  that  put  yon  brazen 
bowl  to  shame  ! 

S.  FRANCES  HARRISON. 
From  "To  Miranda." 


MIRANDA. 

""THE  smiling  plains,  profusely  gay, 

Are  drest  in  all  the  pride  of  May ; 
The  birds  on  every  spray  above 
To  rapture  wake  the  vocal  grove  ; 

But  ah  !  Miranda,  without  thee, 

Nor  spring  nor  summer  smiles  on  me  ; 

All  lonely  in  the  secret  shade 

I  mourn  thy  absence,  charming  maid  ! 

O  soft  as  love  !  as  honor  fair  ! 
Serenely  sweet  as  vernal  air  ! 
Come  to  my  arms  ;  for  you  alone 
Can  all  my  absence  past  atone. 


304  /BMriam 

O  come  !  and  to  my  bleeding  heart 
Thy  sovereign  balm  of  love  impart ; 
Thy  presence  lasting  joy  shall  bring, 
And  give  the  year  eternal  spring  ! 

WILLIAM  FALCONER. 
"Address  to  Miranda." 


MIRIAM. 

1  MMORTAL  name  !   Recalling  to  our  thoughts 

Victorious  anthems  sung  by  maidens  fair  ; 
Music  of  harp  and  timbrel  sounding  forth 
Triumphant  strains  upon  the  desert  air. 

"  Miriam  !  "     One  of  the  illustrious  three 
Chosen  by  God  to  lead  his  people  forth 

From  Egypt's  bondage  to  a  fruitful  land, 

"The  glory  and  the  praise    of  the  whole 
earth." 

"Miriam,"  sweet  friend,  glory,  and  praise,  and 

joy. 

Ne'er  dreamed  of  in  those  morning  twilight 

hours, 

E'en  by  those  favored  ones,  these  Gospel  days 
Resplendent  shed  on  Zion's  holy  towers. 


305 


The  Moslem,  with  his  face  towards  the  East, 
May  pray  where  Juda's  gold-domed  temple 
stood  ; 

The  wandering  Bedouin  may  pitch  his  tent 
By  Jordan's  stream  or  Galilee's  fair  flood. 

Yet  shall  the  Church,  God's  temple  here  below, 
Stand  fair  and  beautiful  before  the  world, 

A  glory  and  a  joy,  —  from  her  high  towers, 
The   conquering  banner  of  our  Christ  un- 
furled ! 

And  lofty  praises  still,  with  harp  and  voice 
Sound  from  her  altars  to  Immanuel's  name, 

And  still,  'mid  those  who  love  her,  I  behold, 
Inscribed  on  her  fair  records,  "  Miriam." 

SARAH  MILLIGAN  KIMBALL. 


MOLLY. 

f~\  MOLLY  BAWN,  why  leave  me  pining, 

All  lonely  waiting  here  for  you  ? 
The  stars  above  are  brightly  shining 

Because — they  've  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  flowers,  late,  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a  rival  blush  with  you, 
But  their  mother,  Nature,  set  them  sleeping, 

With  their  rosy  faces  wash  'd — with  dew. 


Now  the  pretty  flowers  were  made  to  bloom,  dear, 

And  the  pretty  stars  were  made  to  shine, 
And  the  pretty  girls  were  made  for  the  boys,  dear. 

And  maybe  you  were  made  for  mine  ! 
The  wicked  watch-dog  here  is  snarling — 

He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  you  see  ; 
He  knows  I  'd  steal  you,  Molly  darling — 

And  then  transported  I  should  be. 

SAMUEL  I/OVER. 
"  Molly  Bawn." 


MYRA. 

I     WITH  whose  colors  Myra  dress'd  her  head, 
'     I,  that  wore  posies  of  her  own  hand-making, 
I,  that  mine  own  name  in  the  chimneys  read 

By  Myra  finely  wrought  ere  I  was  waking : 
Must  I  look  on,  in  hope  time  coming  may 
With  change  bring  back  my  turn  again  to  play  ? 

I  that  on  Sunday  at  the  church-stile  found 

A  garland  sweet   with    true-love-knots   in 

flowers, 

Which  I  to  wear  about  mine  arms  was  bound 
That  each  of  us  might  know  that  all  was 

ours ; 

Must  I  lead  now  an  idle  life  in  wishes, 
And  follow  Cupid  for  his  waves  and  fishes  ? 


/Bbgrttlla  307 

I,  that  did  wear  the  ring  her  mother  left, 

I,  for  whose  love  she  gloried  to  be  blamed, 
I,  with  whose  eyes  her  eyes  committed  theft, 
I,   who   did   make   her  blush  when  I  was 

named  : 
Must  I  lose  ring,  flowers,  blush,  theft,  and  go 

naked, 
Watching  with  sighs  till  dead  love  be  awaked  ? 

Was  it  for  this  that  I  might  Myra  see 

Washing    the    water    with    her    beauties 

white  ? 
Yet  would  she  never  write  her  love  to  me. 

Thinks  wit  of  change  when  thoughts  are  in 

delight ! 

Mad  girls  may  safely  love  as  they  may  leave ; 
No  man  can  print  a  kiss  :  lines  may  deceive. 

FTJLKE  GREVILLE,  LORD  BROOKE. 


MYRTILLA. 

T'HIS  is  the  difference,  neither  more  nor  less, 

Between  Medusa's  and  Myrtilla's  face  : 
The  former  slays  us  with  its  awfulness, 
The  latter  with  its  grace. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  AI.DRICH. 


3o8 

NANCY. 

\A/E  have  dark  lovely  looks  on  the  shores 

where  the  Spanish 

From  their  gay  ships  came  gallantly  forth, 
And  the  sweet  shrinking  violets  sooner  will 

vanish 

Than  modest  blue  eyes  from  our  north  ; 
But  oh  !  if  the  fairest  of  fair-daughtered  Erin 

Gathered  round  at  her  golden  request, 
There  's  not  one  of  them  all  that  she  'd  think 

worth  comparing 
With  Nancy,  the  pride  of  the  west. 

You  'd  suspect  her  the  statue  the  Greek  fell  in 

love  with, 

If  you  chanced  on  her  musing  alone, 
Or  some  goddess  great  Jove  was  offended  above 

with, 

And  chilled  to  a  sculpture  of  stone  ; 
But  you   'd  think  her  no  colorless,  classical 

statue, 

When  she  turned  from  her  pensive  repose, 
With  her  glowing  grey  eyes  glancing  timidly  at 

you, 
And  the  blush  of  a  beautiful  rose. 

Have   you   heard   Nancy   sigh  ?   then   you   've 

caught  the  sad  echo 
From  the  wind  harp  enchantingly  borne. 


309 


Have  you  heard  the  girl  laugh  ?  then  you  've 

heard  the  first  cuckoo 
Carol  summer's  delightful  return  ; 
And  the  songs  that  poor,  ignorant,  country  folk 

fancy 

The  lark's  liquid  raptures  on  high, 
Are  just  old  Irish  airs  from  the  sweet  lips  of 

Nancy, 
Flowing  up  and  refreshing  the  sky. 

And  though  her  foot  dances  so  soft  from  the 

heather 

To  the  dew-twinkling  tussocks  of  grass, 
It  but  warns  the  bright  drops  to  slip  closer  to- 

gether 

To  image  the  exquisite  lass  ; 
We  've   no    men    left    among    us    so    lost   to 

emotion, 

Or  scornful,  or  cold  to  her  sex, 
Who  'd  resist  her,  if  Nancy  once  took  up  the 

notion 
To  set  that  soft  foot  on  their  necks. 

Yet,   for  all  that  the  bee  flies  for  honey-dew 

fragrant 

To  the  half-opened  flower  of  her  lips, 
And    the    butterfly    pauses,    the    purple-eyed 

vagrant, 
To  play  with  her  pink  finger-tips  ; 


3io  IRanic 

From  all  human  lovers  she  locks  up  the  treasure 

A  thousand  are  striving  to  taste, 
And  the  fairies  alone  know  the  magical  measure 

Of  the  ravishing  round  of  her  waist. 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 
"  Nancy,  the  Pride  of  the  West." 


NANIE. 

D  ED  rowes  the  Nith  'tween  bank  and  brae, 

Mirk  is  the  night  and  rainie-o, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in  storm, 

I  '11  gang  and  see  my  Nanie-o  ; 
My  Nanie-o,  my  Nanie-o  ; 

My  kind  and  winsome  Nanie-o, 
She  holds  my  heart  in  love's  dear  bands, 

And  nane  can  do  't  but  Nanie-o. 

In  preaching  time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonnie-o, 
I  cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace, 

For  thieving  looks  at  Nanie-o  ; 
My  Nanie-o,  my  Nanie-o  ; 

The  world  's  in  love  with  Nanie-o  ; 
That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 

That  wadna  love  my  Nanie-o. 


TRanng  3" 

My  breast  can  scarce  contain  tny  heart, 

When  dancing  she  moves  fiuely-o  ; 
I  guess  what  heaven  is  by  her  eyes, 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely-o  ; 
My  Nanie-o,  my  Nanie-o  ; 

The  flower  o'  Nithsdale  's  Nanie-o  ; 
Love  looks  frae  'neath  her  long  brown  hair, 

And  says,  I  dwell  with  Nanie-o. 

Tell  not,  thou  star  at  gray  daylight 

O'er  Tinwald-top  so  bonnie-o, 
My  footsteps  'mang  the  morning  dew 

When  coming  frae  my  Nanie-o  ; 
My  Nanie-o,  my  Nanie-o  ; 

Nane  ken  o'  me  and  Nanie-o ; 
The  stars  and  moon  may  tell  't  aboon, 

They  winua  wrang  my  Nanie-o. 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 
'My  Nanie-o." 


NANNY. 

'THERE  's  mony  a  flower  beside  the  rose, 

And  sweets  beside  the  honey  ; 
But  laws  maun  change  ere  life  disclose 

A  flower  or  sweet  like  Nanny. 
Her  ee  is  like  the  summer  sun, 

When  clouds  can  no  conceal  it, 


t2  IRatalie 

Ye  're  blind  if  it  ye  look  upon, 
Oh  !  mad  if  ere  ye  feel  it. 

I  've  tnony  bonnie  lassies  seen, 

Baith  blythesome,  kind,  an'  canny  ; 
But  oh  !  the  day  has  never  been 

I  've  seen  another  Nanny  ! 
She  's  like  the  mavis  in  her  sang, 

Amang  the  brakens  bloomin'  ; 
Her  lips  ope  to  an  angel's  tongue, 

But  kiss  her,  oh  !  she  's  woman. 

ALEXANDER  HUME. 


NATALIE. 

I  SIT  beside  the  singing  stream, 

And  watch  the  laughing  ripples  play, 
And  as  I  dream  youth's  golden  dream, 

I  hearken  to  the  words  they  say  ; 
For  ever  sing  they  unto  me 
In  joyous  cadence,  "Natalie." 

Hid  deep  within  the  leafy  tree, 
The  thrush  is  singing  to  his  mate, 

And  well  I  know  the  melody 

Which  thrills  his  happy  soul  elate  ; 

For  e'er  he  warbles  in  his  glee 

One  sweet  name  only,  "  Natalie." 


IRell  313 

I  wander  in  the  grove  alone, 

And  breathe  the  fullness  of  the  spring, 
And  every  tree,  responsive  grown 

To  my  heart's  throb,  is  whispering 
Within  my  ear — full  soft,  full  free — 
That  one  dear  name  of  "  Natalie.'' 

And  evermore,  where  'er  I  be, 

A  fairy  presence  draweth  near ; 
She  fills  my  soul  with  ecstasy, 

And  each  sweet  sound  that  greats  my  ear 
Doth  guess  my  heart's  felicity 
And  answers  fondly,  "Natalie." 

HOWELI,  STROUD  ENGLAND. 


NELL. 

M  ELL  !  Nell ! 

There  is  a  poem  in  the  very  name, 
One   of   those   chance-born,    soulful   dreams 

which  start 

To  sudden  being  in  a  poet's  heart 
And  leave  him  wondering  from  whence  it  came. 

Nell !  Nell  ! 

The  air  is  murmurous  with  the  silvery  sound  ; 
The  song-birds  trill  it,  and  the  southern  breeze 


314 


Which  blows  from  sunny  isles  in  sunny  seas 
Blends  with    and    bears    it    onward,   perfume 
crowned. 

Nell  !  Nell  ! 

The  flowers  whisper  it  unto  the  grass 
(But  only  whisper  it)  ;    the  river's  heart 
Beats  to  the  music,  and  the  waves  impart 

Its  melody  unto  the  banks  they  pass. 

Nell  !  Nell  ! 

The  sunbeams  trace  it  on  the  glinting  leaves, 
And  the  old  forest-kings  are  minded  when 
Beneath  their  branches  rode  the  mail-clad  men 
Of  that  dead  age  which  sad-voiced  Romance 
grieves. 

Nell  !  Nell  ! 

All  nature  echoes  back  thy  name  to  me  ; 
Yet  thou  art  but  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
A  far-off  vision  which  doth  ever  seem 
Half  real  and  half  an  idle  phantasy. 

OTTOMAR  H.  ROTHACKER. 


NELLY. 

DY  Pinkie  House  oft  let  me  walk, 

While,  circled  iu  my  arms, 
I  hear  my  Nellie  sweetly  talk, 
And  gaze  on  all  her  charms. 


315 


O  let  me  ever  fond  behold 

Those  graces  void  of  art, 
Those  cheerful  smiles  that  sweetly  hold, 

In  willing  chains,  my  heart  ! 

O  come,  my  love  !  and  bring  anew 

That  gentle  turn  of  mind  ; 
That  gracefulness  of  air,  in  you 

By  nature's  hand  designed. 
That  beauty  like  the  blushing  rose 

First  lighted  up  this  flame 
Which,  like  the  sun,  forever  glows 

Within  my  breast  the  same. 

Ye  light  coquettes  !  ye  airy  things  ! 

How  vain  is  all  your  art, 
How  seldom  it  a  lover  brings, 

How  rarely  keeps  a  heart  ! 
O  gather  from  my  Nelly's  charms  ; 

That  sweet,  that  graceful  ease, 
That  blushing  modesty  that  warms, 

That  native  art  to  please  ! 

Come  then,  my  love  !  O,  come  along  ! 

And  feed  me  with  thy  charms  ; 
Come,  fair  inspirer  of  my  song  ! 

Oh,  fill  my  longing  arms  ! 
A  flame  like  mine  can  never  die 

While  charms  so  bright  as  thine, 


316  fltna 

So  heavenly  fair,  both  please  the  eye 
And  fill  the  soul  divine  ! 

JOSEPH  MITCHELL. 
"Pinkie  House." 


NINA. 

''T  IS  summer  time  ;  the  year  's  at  noon 
In  this  bright  leafy  month  of  June, 
But  spring  I  see,  tnethinks  its  grace 
I  read  in  this  fair  maiden's  face, 
So  pure,  so  fresh,  with  limpid  eyes 
As  brown  and  clear  as  streams  that  rise 
In  northern  glens  ;  her  locks  have  caught 
The  ruddy  hue  of  pine-stems  sought 
By  merry  squirrels  in  their  play. 
Oh,  what  recalls  sweet  spring  to-day 
As  this  smooth  brow  with  thoughts  untold, 
Which  later  days  shall  all  unfold, 
As  these  soft  lips  not  yet  compressed 
With  hidden  griefs  ?     Her  heart,  at  rest, 
Is  like  a  quiet  pool  at  dawn  ; 
She  is  in  her  shy  grace  a  fawn, 
Unstartled  yet  by  stranger's  gaze 
It  greets  the  world  with  glad  amaze. 
We  who  have  felt  life's  dust  and  heat 
Are  quick  this  breathing  Spring  to  greet, 


flora  317 

As  travelers  tread  with  joy  the  grass, 
With  eyes  refreshed  we  onward  pass. 

B.  I,.  TOLLEMACHE. 

'To  Nina  (In  June)." 


NORA. 

f  ESBIA  hath  a  beaming  eye, 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth  ; 
Right  and  left  its  arrows  fly, 

But  what  they  aim  at  no  one  dreameth. 
Sweeter  'tis  to  gaze  upon 

My  Nora's  lid  that  seldom  rises  ; 
Few  its  looks,  but  every  one 

Like  unexpected  light  surprises  ! 
Oh,  tny  Nora  Creina,  dear  ! 

My  gentle,  bashful  Nora  Creina ! 
Beauty  lies 
In  many  eyes, 
But  love  in  yours,  my  Nora  Creina ! 

Lesbia  wears  a  robe  of  gold, 

But  all  so  close  the  nymph  hath  laced  it, 
Not  a  charm  of  beauty's  mould 

Presumes  to  stay  where  nature  placed  it. 
Oh  !  my  Nora's  gown  for  me, 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 


3*8  Iflorma 

Leaving  every  beauty  free 

To  sink  or  swell  as  Heaven  pleases  ! 
Yes,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear, 

My  simple,  graceful  Nora  Creina  ! 
Nature's  dress 
Is  loveliness — 
The  dress  you  wear,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  hath  a  wit  refined, 

But,  when  its  points  are  gleaming  round  us, 
Who  can  tell  if  they  're  designed 

To  dazzle  merely,  or  to  wound  us  ? 
Pillowed  on  my  Nora's  heart, 

In  safer  slumber  Love  reposes — 
Bed  of  peace  !  whose  roughest  part 
Is  but  the  crumpling  of  the  roses. 
Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear  ! 

My  mild,  my  artless  Nora  Creina  ! 
Wit,  tho'  bright, 
Hath  no  such  light 

As  warms  your  eyes,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 
THOMAS  MOORE. 


NORMA. 

M  ORMA,  of  the  sea-deep  eyes, 

Full  of  loving  magicries, 
Prithee,  sweeting,  do  not  wear 
Poppies  in  thy  twilight  hair — 


©live  319 

Poppies  through  whose  veins  there  run 

Juices  of  oblivion — 

Lest,  perchance,  thou  shouldst  forget 

Love  and  all  his  deathless  vows  ! 
Rather  would  I  have  thee  set 

Rosemary  above  thy  brows 
In  the  shadows  of  thy  hair, 
Keeping  sweet  remembrance  there  ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


OLIVE. 

r\  SUNSHINE  in  profoundest  gloom, 

To  know  that  on  the  earth  there  dwells, 
Somewhere,  unseen,  one  woman  whom 

No  noblest  thought  excels  ; 
And  that  by  valor  to  resign, 
I  make  her  more  than  ever  mine. 

Too  late,  too  late,  I  learn  how  sweet 
'T  would  be  to  reach  a  noble  aim, 

And  then  fling  fondly  at  your  feet 
The  fullness  of  my  fame. 

Now — now, — I  scarce  know  which  is  best, 

To  strive,  or  lay  me  down  and  rest. 

O  winter  in  the  sunless  land  ! 

O  narrowed  day  !     O  darker  night ! 


320  ©livna 

0  loss  of  all  that  let  me  stand 
A  giant  in  the  fight  ! 

1  dwindle  ;  for  I  see,  and  sigh, 
A  mated  bird  is  more  than  I. 

ALFRED  AUSTIN. 
From  "The  Human  Tragedy." 


OLIVIA. 

T^UKE. — O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia 

U     first, 

Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence  ; 

That  instant  was  I  turned  into  a  hart : 

And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 

E'er  since  pursue  me. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
From  "Twelfth  Night." 


PAMELA. 

*THE  fair  Pamela  came  to  town, 

To  London  town  in  early  summer. 
And  up  and  down  and  round  about 

The  beaux  discussed  the  bright  new-comer, 
With  "  Gadzooks,  sir,"  and  "  Ma'am,  my  duty," 
And  "  Odds  my  life,  but  't  is  a  Beauty  !  " 


Pamela  321 

To  Raiielagh  went  Mistress  Pam, 

Sweet  Mistress  Pam  so  fair  and  merry, 

With  cheek  of  cream  and  roses  blent, 
With  voice  of  lark  and  lip  of  cherry. 

Then  all  the  beaux  vow'd  't  was  their  duty 

To  win  and  wear  this  country  Beauty. 

And  first  Frank  Lovelace  tried  his  wit, 
With  whispers  bold  and  eyes  still  bolder  ; 

The  warmer  grew  his  saucy  flame, 

Cold  grew  the  charming  fair  and  colder. 

'T  was  "icy  bosom" — "cruel  beauty" — 

"To  love,  sweet  Mistress,  't  is  a  duty." 

Then  Jack  Carew  his  arts  essayed, 

With  honeyed  sighs  and  feigned  weeping. 

Good  lack  !  his  billets  bound  the  curls 
That  pretty  Pam  she  wore  a-sleeping. 

Next  day  these  curls  had  richer  beauty, 

So  well  Jack's  fervor  did  its  duty. 

Then  Cousin  Will  came  up  to  view 
The  way  Pamela  ruled  the  fashion  ; 

He  watched  the  gallants  crowd  about, 
And  flew  into  a  rustic  passion. 

Left  "Squire,  his  mark,"  on  divers  faces, 

And  pinked  Carew  beneath  his  laces. 

Alack  !  one  night  at  Ranelagh 

The  pretty  Sly-boots  fell  a-blushing  ; 


322  Pamela 

And  all  the  mettled  bloods  look'd  round 

To  see  what  caused  that  telltale  flushing. 
Up  stepp'd  a  grizzled  Poet  Fellow 
To  dance  with  Pam  a  saltarello. 


Then  Jack  and  Frank  and  Will  resolved, 
With  hand  on  sword  and  cutting  glances, 

That  they  would  lead  that  Gray  beard  forth 
To  livelier  tunes  and  other  dances. 

But  who  that  saw  Patn's  eyes  a-shining 

With  love  and  joy  would  see  her  pining? 

And — oons !  Their  wrath  cool'd  as  they  looked — 

That  Poet  stared  as  fierce  as  any  ! 
He  was  a  mighty  proper  man , 

With  blade  on  hip  and  inches  many. 
The  beaux  all  vow'd  it  was  their  duty 
To  toast  some  newer,  softer  Beauty. 

Sweet  Pam  she  bridled,  blush'd,  and  smiled — 
The  wild  thing  loved,  and  could  but  show  it ! 

Mayhap  some  day  you  '11  see  in  town 
Pamela  and  her  grizzled  Poet. 

For  sooth  he  taught  the  rogue  her  duty, 

And  won  her  faith,  her  love,  her  beauty. 

ELLEN  M.  HUTCHINSON. 

"Pamela  in  Town." 


pansfe  323 

PANSIE. 


,  on  a  Sabbath  noon,  my  sweet, 
In  white,  to  find  her  lover.  ' 
The  grass  grew  proud  beneath  her  feet, 
The  green  elm  leaves  above  her  — 
Meet  we  no  angels,  Pansie  ? 

She  said,  "We  meet  no  angels  now," 
And  soft  lights  streamed  upon  her  ; 

And  with  white  hand  she  touched  a  bough, 
She  did  it  that  great  honor  — 

What  —  meet  no  angels,  Pansie? 

O,  sweet  brown  hat,  brown  hair,  brown  eyes, 
Down-dropp'd  brown  eyes  so  tender  ; 

Then  what,  said  I  ?  gallant  replies 
Seem  flattery  and  offend  her  ; 

But  —  meet  no  angels,  Pansie  ? 

THOMAS  ASHE. 


PAULINE. 

S~\  THE  smell  of  the  coming  Spring  ! 

And  O  the  blue  of  the  sky  ! 
As  we  wandered  through  the  meadow-lands, 
Pauline  and  I. 


324  Pauline 

The  golden  curls  on  her  girlish  brow 

Blew  wild  in  the  April  breeze, 
As  she  picked  from  the  slopes  that  faced  the 
south 

The  early  anemonies. 

And  her  little  hand  was  in  my  hand, 
And  her  spring-time,  childish  words, 

Seemed  more  the  voice  of  the  coming  Spring, 
Than  the  vernal  song  of  birds. 

Yet,  O  the  note  of  the  hermit-thrush, 

And  the  whistle  of  the  quail  ! 
And  O  the  flute  of  the  robin's  throat, 

That  swelled  from  a  lowland  vale  ! 

And  a  blue-bird  flitted  across  our  path, 

And  sang  from  a  swinging  vine  ; 
But  never  a  voice,  O  child  of  Spring, 

As  sweet  to  me  as  thine  ; 

And  never  the  sound  of  a  lilting  stream, 

And  never  a  waterfall, 
So  light  and  soft  as  your  childhood  laugh, 

Where  the  quail  and  the  robin  call. 

For  the  golden  air  was  dim  with  dreams, 
And  the  world  grew  young  with  love, 

And  your  childish  heart  felt  the  subtle  touch 
Of  the  blue,  blue  sky  above. 


pearl  325 

Ah  !  child,  I  love,  as  I  love  the  Spring  ; 

Though  lightly  I  laughed  with  you, 
I  felt  the  wedge  of  the  fleeting  years 

Cleave  deep  between  us  two, — 

A  tinge  of  the  autumn-time,  I  knew, — 

The  prescience  of  its  rime  ; 
But  your  own  child-lips  were  still  untouched 

By  the  withering  lip  of  Time. 

Far  off,  it  seemed,  were  the  singing  birds, 

As  I  felt  your  hand's  caress, 
Till  the  spring  awoke  in  my  troubled  breast 

The  old  child-heartedness. 

Then,  O  the  song  of  the  hermit-thrush, 
And  the  flute  from  the  robin's  throat  ! 

And  O  the  wind  on  the  meadow  grass, 
And  the  blue-bird's  distant  note  ! 

ARTHUR  J.  STRINGER. 


PEARL. 

DEARL,  O  Pearl! 

Naught  but  a  lissom  English  girl, 

So  sweet  and  simple  : 
Naught  but  the  charm  of  golden  curl, 

Of  blush  and  dimple — 
Pearl,  O  Pearl  ! 


326 


Sweet,  ah,  sweet  ! 
'T  is  pleasant  lolling  at  your  feet 

lu  summer  playtime; 
Ah,  how  the  moments  quickly  fleet 
In  sunny  hay-time  — 
Sweet,  ah,  sweet  ! 

Dream,  ah,  dream  ! 
The  sedges  sing  by  swirling  stream 

A  lovely  brief  song  ; 
The  poplars  chant  in  sunny  gleam 
A  lulling  leaf-song  — 
Dream,  ah,  dream  ! 

Stay,  O  stay  ! 
We  cannot  dream  all  through  the  day, 

Demure  and  doubtful  : 
When  shines  the  sun  we  must  make  hay, 
When  lips  are  poutful  — 
Stay,  O  stay  ! 

J.  ASHBY-STERRY. 


PEGGY. 


JVA  Y  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form, 

The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm 
My  Peggy's  worth,  my  Peggy's  mind, 
Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind. 


Penelope  327 

I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air, 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art, 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart. 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye, 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  ; 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway, 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  ! 
The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear, 
The  gentle  look  that  rage  disarms. 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
'  My  Peggy's  Face." 


PENELOPE. 

PENELOPE,  O  witching  maiden  ! 
So  partial  to  the  meadow  lanes, 
Her  pouting  lips  are  richly  laden 

With  kisses  dipped  in  berry  stains  ;       • 
She  laughs  and  frowns — there  "s  nothing  in  it ! — 

Uncertain  as  an  April  day, 
Her  moods  they  change  'most  every  minute, 
Adorable  Penelope ! 


328 


Penelope,  O  witching  maiden  ! 

She  roams  beneath  the  rural  skies, 
Amid  the  woods  all  violet  laden, 

Reflections  of  her  azure  eyes  ! 
A  careless  swing  she  gives  her  basket, 

When  from  her  lips  a  kiss  I  pray, 
And  mocks  me  thus  :  "  Why  do  you  ask  it  ?  " 
Adorable  Penelope  ! 

Penelope  is  very  heartless, 

Of  sighing  swains  she  has  a  score  ; 

And  yet  she  is  so  very  artless 
I  can  not  scorn  —  I  must  adore  ! 

I  '11  ask  her,  by  the  stars  above  me, 
If  all  is  well  or  lack-a-day  ; 

And  if  she  whispers  this  :  "  I  love  thee  !  "  — 
Adorable  Penelope  ! 

HAROLD  MCGRATH. 
"Penelope:  A  Pastoral." 


PEPITA. 

I  TP  in  her  balcony  where 

Vines  through  the  lattices  run 
Spilling  a  scent  on  the  air, 
Setting  a  screen  to  the  sun, 


peptta  329 

Fair  as  the  morning  is  fair, 

Sweet  as  the  blossom  is  sweet, 
Dwells  in  her  rosy  retreat 
Pepita. 


Often  a  glimpse  of  her  face, 

When  the  wind  rustles  the  vine 
Parting  the  leaves  for  a  space, 

Gladdens  this  window  of  mine, — 
Pink  in  its  leafy  embrace, 

Pink  as  the  morning  is  pink, 
Sweet  as  a  blossom  I  think 
Pepita. 

I  who  dwell  over  the  way 

Watch  where  Pepita  is  hid — 
Safe  from  the  glare  of  the  day 

Like  an  eye  under  its  lid  : 
Over  and  over  I  say, — 

Name  like  the  song  of  a  bird, 
Melody  shut  in  a  word, — 
"Pepita." 

Look  where  the  little  leaves  stir  ! 

Look,  the  green  curtains  are  drawn  ! 
There  in  a  blossomy  blur 

Breaks  a  diminutive  dawn  ; 


330  perfcfta 

Dawn  and  the  pink  face  of  her, — 
Name  like  a  lisp  of  the  south, 
Fit  for  a  rose's  small  mouth, 
Pepita  ! 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 


PERDITA. 

CLORIZEL.—        What  you  do 

Still   betters  what   is    done.      When  you 

speak,  sweet, 

I  'd  have  you  do  it  ever  :  when  you  sing, 
I  'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so  ;  so  give  alms  ; 
Pray  so  ;  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
To  sing  them  too  :  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish 

you 

A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function.    Each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular, 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
From  "A  Winter's  Tale." 


perdtta  331 

PERDITA. 

D  ERDITA  stole  my  heart,  she  did !    she 

did! 

And  whirled  and  twirled  me  as  she  bid, 
She  did  ;  and  stamped  her  silken  clogs  at  me 

just  when  she  would, 
And  shook  her  saucy  head — you  know  she  could, 

And  can, 
Compel  the  heart  of  any  man. 

Perdita  vowed  she  loved  me.    Mortal  man 
May  doubt  Perdita  if  he  can, 
He  can  ;  I  could  not,  would  not  if  I  could,  and 

humbly  vowed 
To  love  her  even  in  my  sleety  shroud, 

And  do, 
And  so,  you  know,  would  you. 

Perdita's  fancies  have  half  driven  me  mad. 
She  really,  truly  is  too  bad, 
Too  bad,  but  so  enchantingly,  bewitchingly  di- 
vine, 
And  quite  entirely  mine 

You  see : — 
I  know  you  envy  me. 

Perdita's  maid  must  twirl  and  quirl  her  hair 
Like  any  pyramid  in  air  : 


332  per&ita 

Take  care  to  twist  it  out  again,  and  have  it 

spread  to  bleach 
On  pasteboard  circle,  where  the  sun  may  reach 

And  bake — 
Gold  locks  of  black  locks  make. 


Perdita's  clogs  must  be  the  richest  kind 
Of  satin  ones  ;  before,  behind, 
Soft-lined,  and  covered  well  with  twists  of  fili- 
gree ; 
Her  petticoats  of  satin  must  agree 

With  them 
From  waist  to  hem. 


Perdita's  fluffy  skirts  embroidered  round, 
Sleeves  big  enough  for  any  gown, 
I  found  must  from  Damascus  come,  or  some  far 

heathen  place, 
Alack  !  and  then  there  was  her  corsage  lace — 

And  is  ; 
Truly  a  shame  it  is  ! 

If  all  San  Marco's  riches  were  but  mine  ; 

If  I  with  ducats  did  but  shine, 
And  twine  my  fingers  into  gold  at  every  lapping 

fold 
Where  doublets  could  a  single  ducat  hold, 


perdita  333 

I  yet 
Perdita's  needs  had  never  met. 

Perdita  scores  my  heart  she  does,  she  does  ; 
My  ears  are  deaf  with  such  a  buzz, 
A  buzz,  and  when  I  would  be  sleeping  sweetly 

in  my  bed, 
I  must  be  twirling  in  some  dance  instead, 

And  smile 
As  if  I  liked  the  style. 

Perdita  yet  will  have  me  dead,  she  will ; 
My  limbs  are  lank  ;  I  stoop  until, 
Until  my  breath  it  goes  so  weasened,  when  I 

try  to  sing, 

She    tosses  back    her  head,    and    laughs — the 
wicked  thing — 

My  hair  ? — 
A  dozen  spears  stand  in  the  air. 

Perdita  vows  if  I  should  dare  to  die 
She  would  detain  me  from  the  sky, 
And  fly  beside  me,  but  I  know,  for  all,  she 

would  not  go, 
She  likes  it  mighty  well  below, 

And  soon 
Would  chant  a  different  tune. 

GEORGE  KI.INGI.E. 


334  pbilira 

PHILIRA. 

CI/Y,  fly,  you  happy  shepherds,  fly  ! 

Avoid  Philira's  charms  ; 
The  rigor  of  her  heart  denies 

The  heaven  that  's  in  her  arms. 
Ne'er  hope  to  gaze,  and  then  retire, 

Nor  yielding,  to  be  blessed  : 
Nature,  who  formed  her  eyes  of  fire, 

Of  ice  composed  her  breast. 

Yet,  lovely  maid,  this  once  believe 

A  slave  whose  zeal  you  move  ; 
The  gods,  alas,  your  youth  deceive, 

Their  heaven  consists  in  love. 
In  spite  of  all  the  thanks  you  owe, 

You  may  reproach  'em  this, 
That  where  they  did  their  form  bestow 

They  have  denied  their  bliss. 

SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGH. 
From  "  The  Provoked  Wife." 


PHILLIS. 

HILE  larks  with  little  wing 

Fanned  the  pure  air, 
Tasting  the  breathing  spring, 
Forth  I  did  fare  ; 


pbcebe  335 

Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peeped  o'er  the  mountains  high  ; 
Such  thy  morn  !  did  I  cry, 
Phillis  the  fair. 

In  each  bird's  careless  song 

Glad  I  did  share, 
While  yon  wild  flowers  among, 

Chance  led  me  there  : 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day, 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray  ; 
Such  thy  bloom  !  did  I  say, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

Down  in  a  shady  walk, 

Doves  cooing  were  ; 
I  marked  the  cruel  hawk 

Caught  in  a  snare  ; 
So  kind  may  fortune  be, 
Such  make  his  destiny, 
He  who  would  injure  thee, 

Phillis  the  fair  ! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 
'  Phillis  the  Fair." 


PHCEBE. 

DHCEBEsat, 

Sweet  she  sat, 
Sweet  sat  Phoebe  when  I  saw  her, 


336  pbcebe 

White  her  brow, 
Coy  her  eye  ; 

Brow  and  eye  how  much  you  please  me  ! 
Words  I  spent, 
Sighs  I  sent ; 

Sighs  and  words  could  never  draw  her. 
Oh,  my  love, 
Thou  art  lost, 

Since  no  sight  could  ever  ease  thee, 

Phoebe  sat 
By  a  fount, 

Sitting  by  a  fount  I  spied  her  : 
Sweet  her  touch, 
Rare  her  voice  : 

Touch  and  voice  what  may  distain  you  ? 
As  she  saiig, 
I  did  sigh, 

And  by  sighs  whilst  that  I  tried  her, 
Oh,  mine  eyes, 
You  did  lose 

Her  first  sight,  whose  want  did  pain  you. 

Phoebe's  flocks 
White  as  wool, 

Yet  were  Phoebe's  locks  more  whiter. 
Phcebe's  eyes 
Dove-like  mild, 

Dove-like  eyes,  both  mild  and  cruel  ; 


337 


Montan  swears, 
In  your  lamps, 

He  will  die  for  to  delight  her. 
Phoebe,  yield 
Or  I  die  : 

Shall  true  hearts  be  fancy's  fuel  ? 

THOMAS  LODGE. 
'  Montanus'  Sonnet." 


PHYLLIDA. 

'THE  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Go  swinging  to  the  play  ; 
Their  footmen  run  before  them, 

With  a  "  Stand  by  !  Clear  the  way  !  " 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

She  takes  her  buckled  shoon, 
When  we  go  out  a-courting 

Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Wear  satin  on  their  backs  ; 
They  sit  all  night  at  Ombre, 

With  candles  all  of  wax  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

She  dous  her  russet  gown, 
And  runs  to  gather  May  dew 

Before  the  world  is  down. 


338 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

They  are  so  fine  and  fair, 
You  'd  think  a  box  of  essences 

Was  broken  in  the  air  ; 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida, 

The  breath  of  heath  and  furze, 
When  breezes  blow  at  morning, 

Is  not  so  fresh  as  hers. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

They're  painted  to  the  eyes  ; 
Their  white  it  stays  for  ever, 

Their  red  it  never  dies  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida, 

Her  color  comes  and  goes  ; 
It  trembles  to  a  lily,  — 

It  wavers  to  a  rose. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

You  scarce  can  understand 
The  half  of  all  their  speeches, 

Their  phrases  are  so  grand  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Her  shy  and  simple  words 
Are  clear  as  after  raindrops 

The  music  of  the  birds. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

They  have  their  fits  and  freaks 


339 


They  smile  on  you  —  for  seconds, 

They  frown  on  you—  for  weeks  : 

But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Come  either  storm  or  shine, 

From  Shrove-tide  unto  Shrove-tide, 
Is  always  true  —  and  mine. 

My  Phyllida  !  my  Phyllida  ! 

I  care  not  though  they  heap 
The  hearts  of  all  St.  James's, 

And  give  me  all  to  keep  ; 
I  care  not  whose  the  beauties 

Of  all  the  world  may  be, 
For  Phyllida—  for  Phyllida 

Is  all  the  world  to  me  ! 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
'  The  Ladies  of  St.  James's." 


PHYLLIS. 

"\A7HEN  Phyllis  laughs,  in  sweet  surprise 

My  heart  asks  if  my  dazzled  eyes 
Or  if  my  ears  take  more  delight 
In  luscious  sound  or  beauty  bright, 
When  Phyllis  laughs. 


340 


In  crinkled  eyelids  hid,  Love  lies  ; 
In  the  soft  curving  lips  I  prize, 
Promise  of  rapture  infinite, 

When  Phyllis  laughs. 

Far  to  the  Orient  fancy  flies. 

I  see  beneath  Italian  skies, 
Clad  only  in  the  golden  light, 
Calm  in  perfection's  peerless  might  — 

The  laughter-loving  Venus  rise, 
When  Phyllis  laughs. 

JOHN  HAY. 


POLLY. 

\X7'HO  will  show  us  any  good  ? 

Said  a  fool  once  in  his  folly  ; 
If  he  knows  what  thing  is  good, 

Let  him  come  and  see  my  Polly  ! 
Who  is  Polly  ?     Blithe  and  gay 

Polly  is  the  parson's  daughter  ; 

You  may  see  her  any  day 

On  the  banks  of  Cluny  water. 

Who  will  show  us  any  good  ? 
Said  a  fool  once  in  his  folly, 


341 


In  a  sullen,  sceptic  mood, 

Sulky  and  self-centred  wholly. 
If  he  had  an  eye  to  see 

Sights  that  banish  melancholy, 
Let  him  come  and  feast  with  me 

On  the  blithe  face  of  my  Polly. 

With  a  fairy  foot  she  dances 

On  the  green,  the  parson's  daughter, 
Like  a  sunbeam  when  it  glances 

On  the  face  of  Cluny  water  ; 
Sweet  as  meadow  hay  in  hay-time, 

Fresh  and  fair  as  Christmas  holly, 
Light  as  birds  that  sing  in  May-time 

Is  the  sweet  young  soul  of  Polly  ! 

Scholars  seek  for  bliss  in  books, 

Gray  and  dry,  and  bloodless  wholly  ; 
I  peruse  the  rosy  looks 

And  the  sunny  smiles  of  Polly. 
When  she  leaps  with  bounding  glee, 

Like  a  trout  in  Cluny  water, 
AM  the  soul  of  joy  in  me 

Flows  to  meet  the  parson's  daughter. 

Balls  and  parties  make  a  din, 

Pleasure  trips  a  sounding  clatter, 

But  my  triumph  is  to  win 

A  bright  smile  from  the  parson's  daughter. 


342 


With  much  labor  men  prepare 
Pills  to  purge  all  melancholy  ; 

I  am  wise  to  banish  care 
With  a  single  look  at  Polly. 

When  my  heart  is  sick  with  babble 

Of  the  M.P.'s  in  the  papers, 
Where  the  Whig  and  Tory  rabble 

Mad  with  faction  cut  their  capers, 
I,  like  bird  that  knows  his  nest 

On  the  bank  of  Cluny  water, 
Drown  my  sorrow  on  the  breast 

Of  the  parson's  blooming  daughter. 

Some  will  pant  for  money,  some 

Posted  high  in  public  station, 
Love  with  trumpet  and  with  drum 

To  parade  before  the  nation  ; 
Some  will  dice  their  lives  away, 

Some  with  wine  are  wildly  jolly, 
But  I  am  happy  all  the  day, 

When  I  earn  a  kiss  from  Polly. 

Who  will  show  us  any  good  ? 

Look  around  and  own  your  folly  ; 
In  your  veins  nurse  kindly  blood, 

And  all  you  see  is  goodness  wholly. 
Nature  loves  the  ruddy  hue, 

Hates  pale-blooded  melancholy, 


Iportta  343 

Somewhere  grows  a  rose  for  you, 
As  my  rose  I  found  in  POLLY  ! 

JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE. 


PORTIA. 
(  ON  HER  PORTRAIT.  ) 

DASSANIO.— What  find  I  here  ? 

Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?    What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?    Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  -whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  severed  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ;    so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such   sweet  friends :     Here  in 

her  hairs 

The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  :     But  her  eyes — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  Having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnished  :   Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this 

shadow 

In  underprising  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
From  "Merchant  of  Venice." 


344 

PRISCILLA. 

"/^\FT  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I  thought  of 

the  maiden  Priscilla. 
She   is  alone   in   the   world  ;     her   father  and 

mother  and  brother 
Died  in  the  winter  together  ;    I  saw  her  going 

and  coming, 
Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to  the 

bed  of  the  dying, 
Patient,   courageous,   and  strong,   and  said  to 

myself,  that  if  ever 
There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are  angels 

in  heaven, 
Two  have  I  seen  and  known  ;    and  the  angel 

whose  name  is  Priscilla 
Holds  in  my  desolate  life  the  place  which  the 

other  abandoned. 
Long  have  I  cherished  the  thought,  but  never 

have  dared  to  reveal  it, 
Being  a  coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough 

for  the  most  part. 
Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest  maiden 

of  Plymouth, 
Say  that  a   blunt  old   Captain,   a  man  not  of 

words  but  of  actions, 
Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and 

heart  of  a  soldier. 
Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in  short 

is  my  meaning  ; 


prtscilla  345 

I  am  a  maker  of  war,  and  not  a  maker  of 
phrases. 

You,  who  are  bred  as  a  scholar,  can  say  it  in 
elegant  language, 

Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  plead- 
ings and  wooings  of  lovers, 

Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the  heart 
of  a  maiden." 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  I,ONGFEI-LOW. 
From  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish." 


PRISCILLA. 

A  S  trippingly  as  any  bird  in  spring 

She  speeds  across  the  newly  fallen  snow ; 
I  see  the  wanton  wintry  breezes  blow 
Her  fair  brown  locks  that  round  her  forehead 

cling, 

And  kiss  her  dewy  lips,  sweet  murmuring, 
And  touch  each  cheek,  a  budding   Jacque- 
minot. 

The  dreary  earth  takes  on  a  brighter  glow, 
Her  presence  is  a  joy  to  everything. 

Yet  seems  she  meek  and  shy  and  so  demure, 
With  air  of  noble  breeding,  chaste  and  fine, 
That  they  who  chance  her  peaceful  face 
to  scan, 


346  ipru&ence 

Declare  her  one  whose  every  thought  is  pure, 
Not  stern  like  those  of  her  unbending  line, 
But  a  time-tempered,  lovely  Puritan. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


PRUDENCE. 

|~\EAR  Mr.  Brown  " — I  know  she  meant 
"  Dear  Jack  "  ;  that  D  with  sentiment 

Is  overweighted. 

Shy  little  love  !  she  did  not  dare  ; 
That  flutter  in  the  M  shows  where 

She  hesitated. 

The  darling  girl !  what  loving  heed 
She  gives  the  strokes  ;  it  does  not  need 

Great  penetration 

To  note  the  lingering,  trusting  touch  ; 
As  if  to  write  to  me  were  such 

A  consolation. 

"  The  flowers  came  ;  so  kind  of  you. 

A  thousand  thanks  !  "     Oh,  fie  !  Miss  Prue, 

The  line  betrays  you. 
You  know  just  there  you  sent  a  kiss  ; 
You  meant  that  blot  to  tell  me  this, 

And  it  obeys  you. 


pru&ence  347 

"  They  gave  me  such  a  happy  day. 
I  love  them  so."     She  meant  to  say, 

"  Because  you  sent  them." 
But  then,  you  see,  the  page  is  small  ; 
She  wrote  in  haste — the  words — and  all, — 

I  know  she  meant  them. 


"  At  night  I  kept  them  near  me,  too, 

And  dreamt  of  them,"  she  wrote,  "  and  you," 

But  would  erase  it. 
Did  she  but  have  one  tender  thought 
That  perished  with  the  blush  it  brought, 

My  love  would  trace  it. 

"  This  morning  all  the  buds  have  blown." 
That  flourish  surely  is  "Your  own  "  ; 

'T  is  written  queerly  ; 
She  meant  it  so.     Ah,  useless  task 
To  hide  your  love  'neath  such  a  mask 

As  that  "Sincerely." 

"  Prudence."     Those  tender  words  confess 
As  much  to  me  as  a  caress  ; 

And,  Prue,  you  know  it. 
But  then,  to  tease  me,  you  must  add 
Your  other  name,  although  you  had 

Scarce  space  to  do  it. 


348 


A  dash  prolonged  across  the  sheet 
To  close  the  note  ?  —  the  little  cheat,  — 

No.     When  she  penned  it 
She  meant  its  quavering  length  to  say, 
That  she  could  write  to  me  for  aye, 

And  never  end  it. 

Prue  !     Love  is  like  the  flame  that  glows 
Unseen  till,  lightly  fanned,  it  grows 

Too  fierce  to  quell  it. 
And  mine  !    Ah,  mine  is  unconfessed  ; 
But  now,  —  that  dash  and  all  the  rest,  — 

I  '11  have  to  tell  it. 

H.  C.  FAULKNER. 
"  Between  the  I,ines." 


PSYCHE. 

LJER  cheekes,  the  wonder  of  what  eye  beheld 

Begott  betwixt  a  lily  and  a  rose, 
In  gentle  rising  plaines  devinely  swelled, 

Where  all  the  graces  and  the  loves  repose. 
Nature  in  this  peece  all  her  workes  excelled, 
Yet  shewd  herselfe  imperfect  in  the  close, 
For  she  forgott  (when  she  soe  faire  did  rayse 

her) 
To  give  the  world  a  witt  might  duly  prayse  her. 


349 


When    that  she   spoake,   as    at  a  voice    from 

heaven 
On    her    sweet  words   all    ears   and    hearts 

attended  ; 
When  that  she  sung,  they  thought  the  planetts 

seaven 
By  her  sweet  voice  might  well  their  tunes 

have  mended  ; 
When    she   did    sighe,    all    were    of  joye    be- 

reaven  \ 
And  when  she  smyld,  heaven  had  them  all 

befriended  ; 
If  that    her    voice,   sighes,   smiles,    soe    many 

thrilled  ; 
O,  had  she  kissed,  how  many  had  she  killed  ! 

Her  slender  fingers  (neate  and  worthy  made 
To  be  the  servants  to  soe  much  perfection) 

Joyned  to  a  palme  whose  touch  woulde  streigh 

invade 
And  bring  a  sturdy  heart  to  lowe  subjection. 

Her    slender    wrists    two    diamond    braceletts 

lade, 
Made  richer  by  soe  sweet  a  soule's  election. 

O  happy  braceletts  !  but  more  happy  he 

To  whom  those  arms  shall  as  a  bracelett  be  ! 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 


350  IRacbel 

RACHEL. 

VOU  loved  her,  and  would  lie  all  night 

Thinking  how  beautiful  she  was, 
And  what  to  do  for  her  delight. 

Now  both  are  bound  with  alien  laws  : 
Be  patient ;  put  your  heart  to  school  ; 

Weep  if  you  will,  but  not  despair  : 
The  trust  that  nought  goes  wrong  by  rule 

Makes  light  a  load  the  many  bear. 
Love,  if  heav'n  's  heav'n,  shall  meet  his  dues, 

Though  here  unmatch'd,  or  match'd  amiss  ; 
Meanwhile,  the  gentle  cannot  choose 

But  learn  to  love  the  lips  they  kiss. 
Ne'er  hurt  the  homely  sister's  ears 

With  Rachel's  beauties  :  secret  be 
The  lofty  mind  whose  lonely  tears 

Protest  against  mortality. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 
From  "  The  Angel  in  the  House." 


REBECCA. 

IWl  Y  soul  was  sitting  weary  by  the  well 

When  your  small,  feet  came  twinkling  to 

the  brink  ; 
I  craved  a  draught,  you  curved  your  cool,  white 

arm, 
And  gave  my  soul  to  drink. 

G.  T. 


IRboDa  351 

RHODA. 

A   PLEASANT  thing  on  a  sunny  day 

Has  set  her  a-thinking, 
As  Rhoda  merrily  on  her  way 

Goes  winking,  blinking, 
Mindful  of  Asa  raking  down 
The  hillside  rowen  outside  the  town. 

A  drop  of  the  aether's  pure  serene 

Is  Rhoda's  thinking — 
Akin  to  the  blueness  sometimes  seen 

Behind  her  winking, 
Wonderful  lashes  that  conceal 
More  of  her  heaven  than  they  reveal. 

Asa,  finding  the  labor  long 

Of  the  hot  hay-making, 
Whiles  the  hour  with  an  old,  old  song, 

Timed  to  his  raking — 
A  wooing  song  of  that  pleasant  kind 
Which  the  soul  sends  out  for  an  absent  mind. 

Into  the  meadow  Rhoda  turns 

And  hears  the  singing  ; 
The  blue  drop  under  the  blue  deep  burns, 

And  soft  gates  swinging, 
Spite  of  the  maiden's  art,  reveal 
More  of  her  heaven  than  they  conceal. 


352  IRobina 

Flash  of  the  silver  dust  of  stars 

Is  Rhoda's  thinking, 
Now  that  it  shines  beyond  the  bars 

Of  her  happy  winking, 
Merrily  blinking,  lovelit  eyes, 
That  cannot  hide  their  new  surprise. 

Through  the  meadow  into  the  wood 

Now  Rhoda  fleeing 
With  bounding  feet,  in  the  solitude 

Beyond  his  seeing 
Would  disentangle  a  soul  ensnared, 
That  could  not  now  be  free,  if  it  cared. 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE. 


ROBINA. 

[F  I  had  known  Robina  had  been  there- 
That  charming,  wicked  fair, 
With  high  and  mighty  air — 

If  I  had  guessed 
She  would  be  so  possessed 
To  have  me  dance 

And  prance 

In  such  fantastic  styles, 
I  had  instead  walked  forty  miles  ! 


"Kobina  353 

If  I  bad  known  Robina  had  glanced  round 

Intent  until  she  found, 
And  had  nie  surely  bound 

To  twirl  about, 
To  whirl  around,  in  doubt 
At  every  jirk 
And  quirk 

They  pulled  me  dumbly  through, 
I  had  in  running  worn  away  each  shoe  ! 

If  I  had  guessed  Robina  could  have  slid 
Me,  as  she  truly  did, 
To  meshes  neatly  hid  ; 

To  twist  me  so 

From  dizzy  heel  to  toe, 

And  look  askance, 

And  dance 

Like  shuttlecock  blown  round, 
I  would  have  flown  above  the  ground  ! 

If  I  had  dreamed  Robina  could  have  twirled 

Me  helplessly,  and  curled 
Her  pretty  lip  to  see  me  whirled, 

As  any  leaf 

Blown  round,  beyond  belief 
Through  such  a  maze, 

Ablaze 

As  any  wick  of  flame, 
She  had  not  played  her  pretty  game  ! 


354  IRobtna 

But,  if  Robina  whirled  me  to  her  will, 
And  saw  me  twirled,  until 
They  all  had  had  their  fill 

Of  sport  so  fine, 
To-day  the  laugh  is  mine, 
For  I  can  dance, 

Yes,  prance 
In  such  fantastic  style 
They  stand  aghast  the  while. 

If  then  Robina  laughed  behind  her  fan, 
To-day  she  sighs  ;  "That  man 
Can  dance  as  any  can  : 

Ten  days  ago 

He  played  us  false  :  ah,  woe ! 
Surely  he  knew 

Our  cue 

And  seemed  a  very  clown. 
My  heart,  it  aches  beneath  my  gown  !  " 

I  was  quite  sure  Robina  would  be  there 

Last  night,  and  did  prepare 

To  stab  her  to  despair — 

The  wicked  dear — 

Determined  to  appear 

Skilled  in  the  art, 

Apart 

Whirled  round,  with  will  and  might 
By  Chickabini  taught  through  day  and  night ! 


IRobfna  355 

I  was  quite  sure  Robina  would  be  there, 
And  every  jilty  fair  : 
I  do,  indeed,  declare 

I  was  elate 

To  choose  a  maid  in  state, 
And  lead  her  by, 

To  fly 

In  such  enchanting  style, 
Forgetful  of  all  else  the  while  ! 

I  knew  Robina  would,  behind  her  fan 
Sigh  then  ;  but  heart  of  man 
Must  have,  when  yet  it  can, 
Such  sweet  revenge  : 
I  did  myself  avenge, 
And  strut  and  dance, 

Nor  glance 

To  let  her  know  at  all 
I  loved  her  spite  of  all ! 

And  now  I  must  Robina  find,  you  see  ; 
Love  of  such  quality 

Defies  authority 
And  stirs  the  mind. 
I  must  Robina  find 
And  make  amends, 

Be  friends  ; 

For  I  would  surely  die 
If  she,  in  turn  should  pass  me  by  ! 

GEORGE  KLINGLE. 
"Robma's  Meshes." 


35&  TRomaine 

ROMA1NE. 

"  IVj  O   verse    I  've    sent  you  " — is   this   your 
plaint  ?— 

"Since   those  dear,  early  days."     I  breathe 

them  yet  ! 
Do  you  recall  those  rhymes,  how  sorrow's  taint 

Touched  every  line  ?  Or  do  you,  Love,  forget  ? 
While  life  is  sweet,  and  hope  flies  on  before, 

Here,  read  your  poems  in  my  eager  eyes. 
Is  love  to  fail,  and  hope  be  mine  no  more  ? 

A  wounded   soul   may  rend   the  world   with 

cries. 
Thus,  if  no  melting  verses  you  receive, 

Count  it  not  loss,  but  rather  happy  gain  : 
It  is  enough  to  live  when  we  believe. 

The  deathless  poem  is  the  voice  of  pain. 

CORA  STUART  WHEELER. 


ROMOLA. 

C  HE  rose  and  sadly  left  Love's  'chanted  land, 
But  one  deep,  searching  gaze  a-backward 

turned, 
Then  onward  with  her  pallid  face  of  woe, 

And  eyes  in  which  the  fire  of  anguish  burned. 
But  ever  and  anon  she  paused  and  stood, 

Compelled  to  seek  with  eyes  the  fading  land  ; 


35 


And  ever  and  anon  grief's  burning  crept 
Into  the  face  new-born  resolve  made  grand. 

She  saw  the  once  great  place  where  only  now 

A  mocking  ghost  rose  up  within  the  throne  ; 
She  saw  the  air  with  fleeing  spirits  filled, 

The  phantoms  following  laughing  Love  alone  ; 
She  saw  a  lovely  ship  on  Truth's  clear  lake 

Sail  down  the  waves  and  vanish  into  mist  ; 
She  saw  a  figure,  Trust,  in  violet  robes, 

Stand  there  alone,  sole  keeper  of  a  tryst. 

She  saw  two  goblets  of  a  shadowy  gold 

Stand  emptied  of  their  draughts  of  flashing 

wine  ; 
She  saw  the  birds,  all  drooping  and  unvoiced, 

The  dewdrops  once,  now  crystallized  to  brine  ; 
She  saw  the  flowers  change  into  ashes  gray, 

And  two  sweet   harps,  devoid  of  glittering 

strings  ; 
She  saw  the  fountains,  once  so  plashing  bright, 

Rush  dreary  by  o'er  dark  and  rocky  springs. 

And  whiter  grew  her  face,  more  shuddering 

seemed 

Her  form,  whilst  pathos  of  a  heart's  despair 
Gathered  to  cloud  her  pathway  like  to  night, 
And  stifling  make  the   new-found  cheerless 
air. 


358  TRomola 

She  onward  sped,  till  with  a  last  resolve, 
Stood  calm,  and,  gazing  with  hot,  tearless  eyes, 

Swept  back  her  glance,  as  lovely  Eve  once  did, 
When  fleeing  from  her  radiant  Paradise. 

Lo  !  with  a  clash  the  gates  of  Love's  land  closed, 

And  falling  on  her  knees,  she  bitter  moaned : 
"Mocked,  mocked  by  Love,  whose  Queen  so 
late  I  reigned  ; 

Now,  exiled,  I,  all  crownless  and  dethroned  ; 
And  he,  my  former  King,  lies  low  in  dust, 

A  fallen  god,  who  charged  with  golden  glow, 
Who  but  deceived  my  eyes,  won  my  deep  heart 

With  arts  which  treacherous  Fancy  loves  to 
throw. 

"Mocked,  mocked,"  she  cried,  "  my  joy  and 
youth  all  gone, 

Exiled  I  wander  from  Love's  sunny  land  ; 
But,  lo,"  uplifting  proud  her  dusky  eyes, 

"  Is  there  no  goal  less  beautiful,  more  grand — 
Is  there  no  goal  whose  silver  stars  point  out 

True  inspirations  from  each  self  apart, 
Whose  hopes  and  aims  lead  on  to  holier  things 

Than  housing  only  each  a  selfish  heart  ? 

"Farewell,  dear  land,  the  mist  is  deepening 

o'er 
Your  space.     I  go — farewell — all  self-exiled, 


IRosa  359 

But  not  to  seek  the  river  dark  Despair, — 

Rather  to  find  a  haven  undefiled." 
Uprose  she  then  iu  queenly  majesty, 

And  on  her  crownless  head  she  clasped  her 

hands, 

Poor,  trembling  hands  ;  but  passed  she  stately 
on, 

Heavy,  but  brave,  to  seek  those  other  lands. 
And  travellers,  treading  the  same  dreary  road, 

A  woman  saw  in  silent,  holy  guise, 
In  whose  calm  face  peace  symbolized  itself, 

But  wore  a  twilight  in  the  dusky  eyes. 

BERTHA  MAY  IVORY. 
"  Romola— Self-Exiled." 


ROSA. 

'"THE  wisest  soul,  by  anguish  torn, 

Will  soon  unlearn  the  lore  it  knew  ; 
And  when  the  shining  casket 's  worn, 
The  gem  within  will  tarnish  too. 

But  love  's  an  essence  of  the  soul, 

Which  sinks  not  with  this  chain  of  clay  ; 

Which  throbs  beyond  the  chill  control 
Of  with'ring  pain  or  pale  decay. 

And  surely,  when  the  touch  of  Death 
Dissolves  the  spirit's  earthly  ties, 


360  1Rosa 

L,ove  still  attends  th'  immortal  breath, 
And  makes  it  purer  for  the  skies  ! 

Oh  Rosa,  when,  to  seek  its  sphere, 
My  soul  shall  leave  this  orb  of  men, 

That  love  which  form'd  its  treasure  here, 
Shall  be  its  best  of  treasures  then  ! 

And  as,  in  fabled  dreams  of  old, 

Some  air-born  genius,  child  of  time, 

Presided  o'er  each  star  that  roll'd, 

And  track'd  it  through  its  path  sublime  ; 

So  thou,  fair  planet,  not  unled, 
Shall  through  thy  mortal  orbit  stray  ; 

Thy  lover's  shade,  to  thee  still  wed, 
Shall  linger  round  thy  earthly  way. 

Let  other  spirits  range  the  sky, 
And  play  around  each  starry  gem  ; 

I  '11  bask  beneath  this  lucid  eye, 
Nor  envy  worlds  of  suns  to  them. 

And  when  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat, 
And  when  that  breath  at  length  is  free, 

Then,  Rosa,  soul  to  soul  we  '11  meet, 
And  mingle  to  eternity  ! 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

"  To  Rosa."    Written  during  illness. 


IRosalinD  361 

ROSALIND. 

CROM  the  east  to  western  Ind, 

No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind. 
All  the  pictures,  fairest  lined, 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind, 
But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Tongues  I  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil  sayings  show. 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows, 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend  : 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write  ; 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  Nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  filled 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarged  : 

Nature  presently  distilled 


362  IRosalinD 

Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart, 

Cleopatra's  majesty, 
Atalanta's  better  part, 

Sad  l,ucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised  ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
"  As  You  L,ike  It." 


ROSALIND. 


A/I Y  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes, 
Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of  rapid 

flight, 

Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whither, 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  ? 


TRosalinD  363 

ii. 

The  quick  lark's  closest-carolled  strains, 

The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 

The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 

The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 

The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 

That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way, 

To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 

Js  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 

As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 

You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 

Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 

Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins, 

And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways, 

Through  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 

Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright, 

Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 

To  pierce  me  through  with  pointed  light ; 

But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 

Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill, 

And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 

Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 

From  excess  of  swift  delight. 

in. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 


364  IRosaline 

Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies  ; 

Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will  ; 

But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 

That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 

Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view, 

Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 

Touched  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 

And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 

Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 

And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you  love  : 

When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 

And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day  or  night, 

From  North  to  South  ; 

Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 

And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 

From  off"  your  rosy  mouth. 

ALFRED  (!,ORD)  TENNYSON. 


ROSALINE. 

I  IKE  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines  : 
Of  selfsame  color  is  her  hair, 
Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink  ; 


TRosaline  365 

The  gods  do  fear  them  as  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think, 
Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 

That  beautifies  Aurora's  face, 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 

That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 

Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbor  nigh, 
Within  whose  bounds  she  balm  encloses, 

Apt  to  entice  a  deity  : 

Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 

Where  Love  himself  imprisoned  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 

From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes  ; 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 

Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 
To  feed  perfection  with  the  same  : 

Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue, 


366  1ROSC 

Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 

Yet  soft  of  touch  aud  sweet  in  view  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires  ; 

The  Gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight ; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light : 
Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 

The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there  's  fairer  none, 

Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Heigh-ho,  my  heart  !  would  God  that  she  were 

mine ! 

THOMAS  LODGE. 


ROSE. 

DOSE,  in  the  hedgerow  grown, 

Where  the  scent  of  the  fresh  sweet  hay 
Comes  up  from  the  fields  new-mown, 
You  know  it — you  know  it — alone, 
So  I  gather  you  here  to-day  ! 

For  here — was  it  not  here,  say  ? — 
That  she  came  by  the  woodland  way, 
And  my  heart  with  a  hope  unknown 
Rose? 


IRoste  367 

Ah,  yes  ! — with  her  bright  hair  blown, 
And  her  eyes  like  the  skies  of  May, 
And  her  steps  like  the  rose-leaves  strown 

When  the  winds  in  the  rose-trees  play, — 
It  was  here, — O  my  love,  my  own 
Rose  ! 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 


ROSIE. 

r\OWN  on  the  sands    there  strolls  a  merry 
maid, 

Aglow  with  ruddy  health  and  gladsome  glee; 

She  breasts  the  breezes  of  the  summer  sea, 
And  lets  each  zephyr  trifle  with  each  braid  ; 
Laughs  gaily  as  her  petticoats  evade 

Her  girlish  grasp  and  wildly  flutter  free, 

As,  bending  to  some  boisterous  decree, 
The  neatest  foot  and  ankle  are  displayed. 

Her  youthful  rounded  figure  you  may  trace, 
Half  pouting,  as  rude  Boreas  unfurls 

A  wealth  of  snowy  frillery  and  lace, 

A  glory  of  soft  golden-rippled  curls. 

Comes,  blushing  with  a  rare  unconscious  grace, 
The  bonniest  of  England's  bonny  girls  ! 
J.  ASHBY-STERRY. 


368  IRowena 

ROWENA. 

A    HEAP  of  mortar,  brick,  and  stone, 

O'ergrown    with    shrubs,      o'errun     with 

vines  : 

That  here  was  once  a  house  and  home, 
How  ill  the  careless  sense  divines, 
Rowena  Darling. 

Not  careless  his,  my  friend's,  who  loves 

To  wander  in  familiar  ways, 
To  talk  of  olden  times,  and — yes — 

To  celebrate  your  simple  praise, 
Rowena  Darling. 

Here,  once  upon  a  time,  he  tells, 

There  lived  a  girl  unknown  to  fame  ; 

The  country-side  no  sweeter  knew  ; 
It  could  not  know  a  sweeter  name, — 
Rowena  Darling  ! 

Here,  where  the  birches'  silver  gleam 

Shines  where  the  hearth-fire  used  to  blaze, 

The  hearth-stone  still  you  can  descry, 
As  smooth  as  in  your  loveliest  days, 
Rowena  Darling. 

Here  whisks  about  the  squirrel  brown  ; 
Here  thrush  or  robin  comes  and  sings  ; 


IRowena  369 

But  standing  here,  I  can  but  think 
Of  other  days  and  sweeter  things, 
Rowena  Darling. 

Here  baked  the  apples  in  a  row  ; 

Here  cracked  the  chestnuts,  ripe  and  sweet ; 
Here — ah,  I  seem  to  see  them  now — 

You  warmed  your  pretty  buskined  feet, 
Rowena  Darling. 

And  here,  when  burned  the  embers  low, 
And  old  folks  long  had  been  asleep, 

Your  heart  stood  still  to  hear  a  voice 

That  whispered — Oh  !  how  warm  and  deep — 
Rowena — Darling ! 

Alas,  how  many  years  have  fled 

Since  hearth  and  heart  were  warm  and  bright, 
And  all  the  room  and  all  the  world 

Glowed  with  your  love's  supreme  delight, 
Rowena  Darling. 

This  rose-bush  growing  by  the  door. 

Perhaps  you  planted  long  ago  ; 
I  pluck  and  kiss,  for  your  dear  sake, 

Its  fairest,  be  it  so  or  no, 

Rowena  Darling  ! 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 
"  Rowena  Darling." 


37°  IRutb 

RUTH. 


and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 
Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood, 

The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 

And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting  ; 
And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever, 
Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping  river. 
But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 

There  is  something  painful  and  sad  to  see  ; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly  wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom  should  be. 

JOHN  GR.EENLEAF  WHITTIER. 
From  "  Mogg  Megone." 


RUTH. 

CHE  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 

Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 


SatDa  371 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  : — 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean, 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean, 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


SAIDA. 

(^)H,  loved  for  other  charms  than  those 
That  mould  thy  faultless  face  ; 

Oh,  fairer  than  the  mystic  rose, 
That  o'er  thy  bosom  plays  ! 

Sweet  maid,  whose  soul  in  be^auty  breaks, 

As  amber  light  the  water  wakes. 


372  SatDa 

Not  mine  the  joy  that  others  know, 
Who  drink  thy  loveliness, 

Or  wrapt  in  music,  languid  grow 
Beneath  thy  song's  caress  ; 

Not  mine  through  every  vein  to  feel 

The  trembling  flame  of  passion  steal ; 

Yet,  Saida,  who  of  all  the  throng, 
That  whisper  thee  divine, 

Would  dare  so  much  thy  spirit  wrong, 
As  match  his  love  with  mine, 

Who  know  no  other  heaven  than  thee, 

Yet  never  hope  that  heaven  to  see  ? 

Perforce  with  sorrow's  subtle  art 

Each  cloistering  feeling  pure, 

Each  hidden  thought  that  moves  thy  heart, 
Within  my  night  I  lure, 

Until,  through  mist  of  blinding  tears, 

Thy  sacred  self  of  self  appears. 

Oh,  airy  step,  as  burdensome 

As  morning's  budding  beam 

To  hopeless  haunter  of  the  tomb, 
Again  into  my  drearn, 

Enchanted  vision,  creep  again, 

And  look  in  sorrow  on  my  pain. 

WILLIAM  T.  WASHBTIRN. 


Sallg  373 

SALLY. 

\\7HOSE  loveliness  sing  I?      Why,   Sally's, 

sure. 

Find  me  a  little  maid  with  brow  more  fair 
And  white,   o'ertopped  with  such  a  crown   of 

sunny  hair, 

Well  trained  one  ardent  lover  to  allure  ; 
Yet  eyebrow,  ringlet,  lovely  forehead  pure, 
Must  with  her  other  charms  the  honor  share, 
O'ershadowing,  not  hiding  beauties  rare 
Enough  to  make  a  siren's  name  endure. 
I  sing  the  splendor  of  her  dark  brown  eyes 
Whose  every  glance  my  bosom  thrills. 
Ye  liquid  deeps,  ye  orbs  that  look  so  wise, 
I  do  adore  you  quite.     Though  passion  fills 
You  now,  yet  not  for  me  your  beauty  dies  ; 
And  when  a  tear  doth  start,  your  sweetness  kills. 

FRANK  MORTIMER  HAWES. 


SAMELA. 

I   IKE  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed, 

Girt  with  a  crimson  robe,  of  brightest  dye, 

Goes  fair  Sam  el  a. 

Whiter  than  be  the  flocks  that  straggling  feed, 
When  wash'd  by  Arethusa  fount  they  lie, 

Is  fair  Samela. 


374  Sara 

As  fair  Aurora  in  her  morning  grey, 
Deck'd  with  the  ruddy  glister  of  her  love 

Is  fair  Samela  ; 

Like  lovely  Thetis  on  a  calmed  day, 
When  as  her  brightness  Neptune's  fancies  move, 

Shines  fair  Samela. 

Her  tresses  gold,  her  eyes  like  glassy  streams, 
Her  teeth  are  pearl,  the  breasts  are  ivory 

Of  fair  Samela. 

Her  cheeks  like  rose  and  lily  yield  forth  gleams  ; 
Her  brows  bright  arches  framed  of  ebony  : 

Thus  fair  Samela 

Passeth  fair  Venus  in  her  bravest  hue, 
And  Juno  in  the  show  of  majesty  : 

For  she  's  Samela. 

Pallas  in  wit, — all  three,  if  you  will  view, 
For  beauty,  wit,  and  matchless  dignity, 

Yield  to  Samela. 

ROBERT  GREENE. 


SARA. 

/^\NE  kiss,  dear  maid  !  I  said  and  sighed- 
^"^     Your  scorn  the  little  boon  denied. 
Ah,  why  refuse  the  blameless  bliss  ? 
Can  danger  lurk  within  a  kiss  ? 

Yon  viewless  wanderer  of  the  vale, 
The  spirit  of  the  western  gale, 


Sara  375 

At  morning's  break,  at  evening's  close, 
Inhales  the  sweetness  of  the  rose, 
And  hovers  o'er  tb'  uninjured  bloom 
Sighing  back  the  soft  perfume. 
Vigor  to  the  zephyr's  wing 
Her  nectar-breathing  kisses  fling; 
And  he  the  glitter  of  the  dew 
Scatters  on  the  rose's  hue. 
Bashful,  lo  !  she  bends  her  head, 
And  darts  a  blush  of  deeper  red  ! 

Too  well  those  lovely  lips  disclose 

The  triumphs  of  the  op'ning  rose  : 

O  fair  !    O  graceful !    bid  them  prove 

As  passive  to  the  breath  of  lave. 

In  tender  accents,  faint  and  low, 

Well  pleased  I  hear  the  whispered  "  No  ! " 

The  whispered  "  No  " — how  little  meant ! 

Sweet  falsehood,  that  endears  consent  ! 

For  on  those  lovely  lips  the  while 

Dawns  the  soft  relenting  smile, 

And  tempts  with  feigned  dissuasion  coy 

The  gentle  violence  of  joy. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


376  Sibgl 

SIBYL. 

'THIS  is  the  glamour  of  the  world  antique  : 

The  thyme-scents  of  Hymettus  fill  the  air, 
And  in  the  grass  narcissus-cups  are  fair. 
The  full  brook  wanders  through  the  ferns  to 

seek 

The  amber  haunts  of  bees  ;  and  on  the  peak 
Of  the  soft  hill,  against  the  gold-marged  sky, 
She  stands,  a  dream  from  out  the  days  gone  by. 
Entreat  her  not.     Indeed,  she  will  not  speak  ! 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  dreams  ;  and  in  her  ears 
There  is  the  rustle  of  immortal  wings  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  the  slow  breeze  bears 
The  mystic  murmur  of  the  songs  she  sings. 
Entreat  her  not ;  she  sees  thee  not,  nor  hears 
Aught  but  the  sights  and  sounds  of  bygone 
springs. 

JOHN  PAYNE. 


SILVIA. 

I  AM  holy  while  I  stand 

Circum-crossed  by  thy  pure  hand  : 
But  when  that  is  gone,  again 
I,  as  others,  am  profane. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


Silvia  377 

SILVIA. 

\A7HO  is  Silvia  ?    What  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness  ; 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling  : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
From  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona." 


STELLA. 


G  TELLA,  whence  doth  these  new  assults  arise, 
A  conquered,  yeelding,  ransackt  heart  to 
whine, 


3?8  Stella 

Whereto  long  since,  through  my  loug-battred 

eyes, 

Whole  armies  of  thy  beauties  entred  in  ? 
And   there,  long  since,  Loue,   thy  lieutenant, 

lies  ; 

My  forces  razde,  thy  banners  raised  within  : 
Of  conquest  do  not  these  effects  suffice, 
But  wilt  new  warre  upon  thine  owue  begin  ? 
With  so  sweet  voyce,  and  by  sweet  Nature  so 
In  sweetest  strength,  so  sweetly  skild  withal 
In  all  sweet  stratagems  sweet  Art  can  show, 
That  not  my  soule,  which  at  thy  foot  did  fall 
I/ong  since,   forc'd  by  thy  beames,   but  stone 

nor  tree, 
By  Sence's  priuiledge,  can  scape  from  thee  ! 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 
From  "  Astrophel  and  Stella." 


STELLA. 

\A/H ETHER  Stella's  eyes  are  found 

FixeJ  on  earth  or  glancing  round, 
If  her  face  with  pleasure  glow, 
If  she  sigh  at  others'  woe, 
If  her  easy  air  express 
Conscious  worth,  or  soft  distress, 
Stella's  eyes,  and  air,  and  face, 
Charm  with  undiminished  grace. 


Sue  379 

If  on  her  we  see  displayed 
Pendant  gems  and  rich  brocade  ; 
If  her  chintz  with  less  expense 
Flows  in  easy  negligence  ; 
Still  she  lights  the  conscious  flame, 
Still  her  charms  appear  the  same. 
If  she  strikes  the  vocal  strings, 
If  she  's  silent,  speaks,  or  sings, 
If  she  sit,  or  if  she  move, 
Still  we  love,  and  still  approve. 

Vain  the  casual,  transient  glance, 
Which  alone  can  please  by  chance, 
Beauty  which  depends  on  art, 
Changing  with  the  changing  art, 
Which  demands  the  toilet's  aid, 
Pendant  gems  and  rich  brocade. 
I  those  charms  alone  can  prize, 
Which  from  constant  nature  rise, 
Which  nor  circumstance,  nor  dress, 
E'er  can  make  or  more  or  less. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 
'An  Ode  to  Stella." 


SUE. 

CHE  was  a  freak  of  Nature's  joy, 

And  flow'ret  wonder-pied, — 
As  startling  as  a  pansy  found 
Black-leaved  and  golden-eyed. 


380  Sue 

Her  voice  was  borrowed  from  the  choir 
That  rings  the  vernal  years  ; 

Her  temper  was  ethereal  fire 
That  calmed  itself  in  tears. 

Some  nameless  touch  of  God's  delight 

Fell  on  her,  as  she  lay 
An  infant,  dreaming  heavenly  dreams, 

And  never  passed  away. 

Her  laughter,  many-voiced  and  full, 
Had  not  one  scornful  strain  : 

Her  eyes,  that  flashed  defiant  mirth, 
Were  tender  and  humane. 

She  wore  the  radiance  of  her  youth 

As  though  she  felt  it  not ; 
And  while  she  held  you  with  her  speech, 

Her  beauty  was  forgot. 

For  soul  to  outward  Beauty  is 

As  Sun  to  dawning  Day, 
The  rosy  drapery  vanish'd 

Before  the  conquering  ray. 

'T  was  hers  to  move  in  fearlessness, 
And  throne  herself  at  ease  : 

Too  royal  were  her  gifts,  that  she 
Should  condescend  to  please. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


Susan  381 

SUSAN. 

A  LL  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard, 

"  Oh  !  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew  ?  " 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard, 
He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The  cord   slides  swiftly  through   his   glowing 
hands, 

And,  quick  as  lightning,  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  sweet  the  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast — 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear — 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

"O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear  ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  !  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 


382  Susan 

"  Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say, 
Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind  ; 

They  '11  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find  ; 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view, 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

' '  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's 
eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 

No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 

Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rowed  to  land, 

"  Adieu !  "  she  cried,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

JOHN  GAY. 


Susette  383 

SUSETTE. 

•THEY  tell  me  that  thy  witching  smiles 

A  shallow  soul  conceal, 
That  thou  art  skilled  in  varied  wiles 

The  hearts  of  men  to  steal. 
But  when  I  view  thy  glances  gay, 

Thine  orbs  of  limpid  blue — 
Ah,  let  them  prate  !     Whate'er  they  ^ay, 

I  know  it  can't  be  true, 
Susette, 

I  know  it  can't  be  true. 

They  tell  me  when  thy  soft  refrains 

The  soul  of  music  thrill, 
That  they  are  but  a  syren's  strains 

To  work  the  stranger  ill. 
But  when  I  see  the  old  folks  throng 

And  little  children,  too, 
To  drink  the  sweetness  of  thy  song, 

I  know  it  can't  be  true, 
Susette, 

I  know  it  can't  be  true. 

They  tell  me  that  thy  beauty  blows, 

A  fair  and  baleful  flower ; 
That  "ueath  an  evil  star  he  goes 

Who  e'er  hath  felt  thy  power. 


384  Sgbil 

But  when  I  see  thy  lashes  shine 

With  pity's  gentle  dew 
My  heart  repels  the  charge  malign, 
I  know  it  can't  be  true, 

Susette, 
I  know  it  can't  be  true. 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 


SYBIL. 

T  T  ER  face  uplifted,  and  she  looked — 
The  mirrors  spake, 
Not — not  to  me  ; 

But,  to  see  her  eyne  so  grand  and  bright^ 
Enough — enough  for  my  delight, 
I  blessed  her  for  another's  sake, 

As  the  slave  blesseth  the  free  : 

Her  face  uplifted,  and  she  smiled — 

Her  soul  a  smile. 

Not — not  for  me  ; 

Yet,  to  see  her  face  so  heavenly  bright, 
Enough — enough  for  my  delight, 
I  blessed  her  who  could  so  beguile, 

As  the  slave  blesseth  the  free : 

Her  face  uplifted,  and  she  blushed — 
The  heart  a  blush  ! 
Not— not  for  me  ; 


{Teresa  385 

Yet,  to  see  such  sight  of  pink  and  white, 
Enough — enough  for  my  delight, 
I  blessed  the  face  one  else  could  flush, 
As  the  slave  blesseth  the  free. 

JOSEPH  ELLIS. 


TERESA. 

T~\OWN  the  garden  pathway  singing. 
Comes  a  lithesome  form  I  know  ; 
Fleet  bright  butterflies  are  winging 
To  and  fro 

On  the  hillsides  where  the   ox-eyed   daisies 
grow. 

Round  her  flutter  thrush  and  sparrow, 

Warbling  joyous,  unafraid, 
And  si}7  Cupid  with  his  arrow 

'Neath  the  shade 

Of  the  rose-tree  lurks  to  greet  the  laughing 
maid. 

Should  he  find  her  there,  the  charmer, 

With  his  bended  bow  and  dart, 
Pierce  the  never-shattered  armor 

Round  her  heart, 

Evermore  my  tongue  would  bless  his  subtle 
art. 


386  Teresa 

See  !  she  wanders  where  the  roses, 

Jealous,  hide  her  from  my  view  ; 
Now  an  opening  fair  discloses 

The  soft  hue 

Of  her  flitting  fleecy  garments,  skyey  blue. 

Ah,  she  pauses  !  but  't  is  only 

By  a  rose-tree  climbing  high, 
There  to  pluck  a  blossom  lonely. 

Is  he  by  ? 

Is  the  love-compelling  goddess'  son  a-nigh  ? 

Who  can  tell  ?  for  on  she  strayeth 

Toward  an  arbor  cool  and  green, 
There  a  splashing  fountain  playeth 

Soft,  serene, 

And   beyond  in  golden   wheat-fields  reapers 
glean. 

Here,  amid  the  vines  entwining, 

Sits  she  as  the  moments  pass, 
While  I  gaze  with  sad  repining 

At  the  mass 

Of  the  shining  clouds,  sun-smit  like  burnished 
brass. 

Still  I  wait,  my  soul  a-quiver, 
Till  she  comes — ah,  fate  be  kind  ! — 

To  my  heart  a  joyous  giver, 
Where  enshrined 
Love  will  hide  beyond  the  power  of  ill  to  find  ; 


TUna  387 

Or  as  calm  and  cold  and  stately 

As  a  statue,  marble-born, 
Passing  with  white  face  sedately, 

Not  in  scorn, 

Yet  to  show  me  how  my  hopes  are  all  forlorn. 

Now  the  hanging  vines  are  parted 

And  I  see  her  draw  a-near. 
Will  she  leave  me  broken  hearted  ? 

Vanish,  Fear  ! 

In  thine  eyes  I  read  my  answer,  thou  most 

dear  ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 
"  Teresa  in  the  Garden." 


UNA. 

A     GENTLE  knight  was    pricking   on  the 
**     plain, 

Yclad  in  mighty  arms  and  silver  shield, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deep   wounds  did  re- 
main, 

The  cruel  marks  of  many  a  bloody  field  ; 
Yet  arms  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield  ; 
His  angry  steed  did  chide  his  foaming  bit, 
As  much  disdaining  to  the  curb  to  yield  : 
Full  jolly  knight  he  seemed,  and  fair  did  sit, 
As  one  for  knightly  jousts  and  fierce  encounters 
fit. 


388  "dna 


A  lovely  lady  rode  him  fair  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  ass  more  white  than  snow  ; 
Yet  she  much  whiter,  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  veil  that  wimpled  was  full  low, 
And  over  all  a  black  stole  she  did  throw, 
As  one  that  inly  mourned  :  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavy  sat  upon  her  palfrey  slow  ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had, 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milk-white  lamb  she 
led. 

So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lamb, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  virtuous  lore, 
And  by  descent  from  royal  lineage  came 
Of  ancient  kings  and  queens,  that  had  of  yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  east  to  western 

shore, 

And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held  ; 
Till  that  infernal  fiend  with  foul  uproar 
Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  then  expelled, 
Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  knight  from  far 

compelled. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 
From  "  The  Faerie  Queen." 


"Urania  389 

URANIA. 

C  HE  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 

While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die  ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 

Was  turn'd  upon  the  sons  of  men  ; 

But  light  the  serious  visage  grew — 

She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them  through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labored,  puny  passion-fits — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she  ! 

Yet  show  her  once,  ye  heavenly  Powers, 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  ours  ! 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights, 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights, 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe  ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 


390  Ursula 

And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee, 
And  cry  :  Long,  long  Pve  looked  for  thee. 

Then  will  she  weep ;  with  smiles,  till  then, 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men, 
Till  then,  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  pure,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


URSULA. 

I  ADY,  whose  peerless  loveliness 

Consenting  day  and  night  confess, 
In  the  gentle  wedded  hour, 
When  twilight  breathes  its  magic  power, 
And  stealthy  from  their  noontide  sleep, 
Beauty's  hidden  spirits  creep, 
No  lofty  rhyme  of  beaten  gold 
The  blossom  of  thy  name  shall  hold  : 
But  the  pine  leaf  answering 
The  robin's  note  shall  sweetly  sing 
Thee,  as  dreaming  sunbeam  fair, 
And  holy  as  pale  evening's  prayer. 

WILLIAM  T.  WASHBURN. 


Dictoria  391 

VICTORIA. 

AA7 HAR    Dee   comes  doon  through   heather 
VV      bells, 

An'  shelterin'  glens  the  roses  woo  ; 
Whar  freedom  dances  ower  the  dells, 

Whar  love  is  leal  an'  hearts  are  true — 
A  bounie  lass  adorns  her  bouir 

In  charms  whase  like  time  never  saw, 
An'  Scotia  names  her  sweetest  flow'r 
Victoria,  Victoria  ! 

Her  smile  of  love  gaes  ower  the  Ian', 
Till  grief  and  pain  are  turned  to  glee  ; 

The  shadows  'neath  her  milk-white  han' 
Like  clouds  afore  the  morning  flee  ; 

An'  whar  she  comes,  for  evermair, 
To  muir  or  mead,  to  hoose  or  ha', 

The  blooms  and  birds  keep  liltiugthere — 
Victoria,  Victoria  ! 

Oh  !  wha  wud  chuse  but  loe  a  lass 

Wi'  spells  which  fancy's  wings  enchain, 
Wi'  graces  queen  did  ne'er  surpass, 

Wha  's  made  a  nation's  heart  her  aiu  ? 
The  rolls  o'  fame  embalm  nae  name, 

Which  honor's  finger  springs  to  shaw, 
Can  heat,  like  thine,  affection's  flame, 
Victoria,  Victoria  ! 

A.  STEPHEN  WILSON. 


IDiolet 

VIOLET. 

WIOLET,  delicate,  sweet, 

Down  in  the  deep  of  the  wood, 
Hid  in  thy  still  retreat, 
Far  from  the  sound  of  the  street, 
Man  and  his  merciless  mood  : — 

Safe  from  the  storm  and  the  heat, 
Breathing  of  beauty  and  good, 
Fragrantly,  under  thy  hood, 
Violet. 

Beautiful  maiden,  discreet, 
Where  is  the  mate  that  is  meet, 
Meet  for  thee — strive  as  he  could — 
Yet  will  I  kneel  at  thy  feet, 
Fearing  another  one  should, 
Violet  ! 

W.  C.  MONKHOTTSE. 


WILHELMEIN. 

TTHE  poet  raptured,  gazing  wifeward,  said  : 

"  Thou  art  the  self  of  beauty  to  my  sight 
From  dainty  feet  to  glory-crowned  head, 
Thy  figure  shapen  is  in  lines  of  light ; 


393 


With  perfect  rhyme  those  lithe  arms  upward 

spread 

A  pulsing  couplet  form  in  rhythm  night  ; 
And  o'er  thy  bosom  drape  the  vestments  white, 
Tenderly,  as  words  by  music  vestured. 
If  verse  now  had  the  graphic  warmth  of  sun, 

If  Love  would  body  what  his  heart  would  hide, 
If  thou  wert  less  than  very  vestal'd  nun, 

Dear  love,  of  thee  might  yield  to  Art's  fond 

pride, 
And,    dressed  in    poet's  breath  —  these   veils 

aside  — 
Thou  shouldst  be  wife  and    poem    merged  in 

one." 

CLIFFORD  LANIER. 
"  Love's  Reserve." 


ZARA. 

T  THINK  but  of  thee  when  with  ruby  and  rose 
The  sun  on  the  mountains  has  tinted  the 

snows, 

And   wakened   thine  eyes  from   their   dreamy 
repose. 

I  think  but  of  thee  when  the  fountains  plash 

sweet 

And  cool  in  the  noontide  amid  the  still  heat, 
Like  the  soft  music  made  by  thy  two  tiny  feet. 


394 


I  think  but  of  thee  when  the   daylight  grows 

pale 

On  valley  and  vineyard,  on  garden  and  vale, 
When  warbles  so  sadly  the  lorn  nightingale. 

I  think  but  of  thee  when  the  moonbeams  out- 

shine, 

And  kiss  so  divinely  each  temple  and  shrine, 
And  play  'mid   the   boughs   of  the  citron  and 

pine. 

In  daylight  or  darkness,  on  land  or  on  sea, 

In  green-girt  Granada  or  far  Araby, 

My  darling,  my  Zara,  I  think  but  of  thee  ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 
"Moorish  I,ove  Song." 


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